


Unconventional Ways of Forming Relationships

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Pining, Princes & Princesses, Romance, minor character illness, secondary pairing Merlin/Morgana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 57,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Uther Pendragon can't abide commoners when it comes to his children's matrimonial prospects. His daughter Morgana, somewhat notorious for her wilfulness, doesn't exactly see it that way and starts parading her new holiday conquest, philosophy student Merlin Emrys, around. It's a liaison, King Uther thinks, that must be put a stop to. He enrolls his son, Arthur, in his efforts to nip the relationship in the bud. Everything's allowed as long as the Royal Household doesn't have to deal with Emrys for long. What he can't foresee is Arthur's reaction to the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconventional Ways of Forming Relationships

**Author's Note:**

> Oodles of people I want to thank! So a big, big thank you goes to my beta Crideon for whipping this into shape. Thank you for going through more than one draft! Another huge one is heading fuckyeah's way for the faux newspaper clippings skins. I'm afraid I pestered her into creating it -- though I'm not having any success in using it. But hey thank you for devising it! Mega hugs for the hard work! I also wanted to send a cartload of hugs to Deminos for cheerleading me throughout! Your enthusiasm is contagious and that's good.  
> Also thanking tink-sky-reid for doing art for this story, and her work on it, and being lovely to me throughout. I cannot wait and this is my chance of giving a big shout out to you!  
> And the art is here! Excitedly, I'm going to point you over here for it: Art  
> Camelittle was a champ to me too because she read over the first part and politics-picked it for me! That was so lovely of you!  
> And last but not least the After Camlann mods deserve all the love in the world for making the fest happen!

The mistletoe twig droops across the bar shelf, before a row of bottles of all shapes and sizes. It's the cheap stuff: Bacardi Gold Rum, Baileys Chocolate Luxe, Gordon's Dry Gin. The most expensive bottle, a tall one of vintage champagne, is collecting a fine veil of dust around its neck. Along the lip of the bar runs a garland. It's stuffed full of mismatched ribbons and equally mismatched baubles. Some are opaque, others clear. They evidently hail from rather disparate sources. The tinsel meandering along the counter's angles is right out from the eighties.

“Shouldn't we go, Your Highness?” Ranulf asks, clearing space around her so she can backtrack.

After some not so subtle cajoling, Morgana's finally made it here, she's not about to turn tail and run. “Oh no. We're having a drink, talking to people.”

“Ma'am.” Ewan sticks his chest out when he clocks a number of patrons watching them. “I'm not sure this location is secure.”

“Nonsense, Ewan.” She really has no idea whether this place is secure or not but she refuses to be tied down by Ranulf and Ewan's paranoia. This is her life, she only has the one to live and intends to make the most of it. “I want to interact with normal, down to earth people for once.”

She's of half a mind to join the pool table where two strapping blokes are vying over an eight-ball match, when she notices the man at the bar. He's standing rather than sitting and this allows her to take in his form. He's tall, lithe, all elbows and knees in that beanpole way some young men continue to sport well past adolescence. His hair is thick and curly and falls across his forehead in tousled clumps that have no right to sit where they do and yet give him an appealing aura. Though he isn't a looker in the way the pool blokes are, he radiates charm.

She hesitates between the two objectives.

“Anyone who believes that Farage doesn't want to fuck low income people over is really naive or one hundred per cent deluded,” the man at the bar says, waving his beer tankard around while he addresses a chorus of nodding, like-minded individuals. “He's said it in so many words. He wants to replace the NHS with an insurance system, he's compared the rise of his group”-- He makes air quotes “--to that of Thatcher, and if that isn't scary enough, he's basically an anti-environmentalist.”

Ranulf and Ewan falling behind, Morgana makes for the bar. “So,” she says, elbowing her way towards the ranter, “you don't believe in UKIP?”

The man turns around, gives his back to the friends he was talking to. His eyes flare. Morgana expects him to start stuttering, fawning, blushing, but he doesn't do any of those things. His mouth tenses at the edges, his lips bracketed by two sharp lines. “I think they're closet racists.”

“So you're for Cameron?” Morgana tilts her head, tosses her hair on one side.

The man scoffs. “His NHS reform is a mess and has damaged patient care, his schools policy has affected the national educational performance levels and his proposed per-pupil cash budget doesn't take account of inflation, which means it's really a cut not an addition. And if that were not enough, he's failed to take credible action against rich tax avoiders.”

“My, my,” Morgana says, arching an eyebrow. “You're opinionated.”

The man's lips – full, soft, entirely decadent – twitch. “Maybe. But then again if you have the power to make a difference I think you ought to strive for that change.”

“And you think you have that power?” Morgana asks, finding herself genuinely looking forward to the answer.

“Anybody with the freedom to vote has,” the man says. “We're all responsible for the choices we make. And we should make them with care because we're affecting the well-being of the community.”

Morgana smiles. “I'm afraid to ask you what you think of the monarchy.”

The man looks away, eyes twinkling. “I'll give you a quote.” He lowers his head, clears his throat, then looks up from under his eyelashes. “There is something exceedingly ridiculous in the composition of Monarchy. One of the strongest natural proofs of the folly of the hereditary right in kings, is that nature disapproves it, otherwise she would not so frequently turn it into ridicule by giving mankind an ass for a lion.”

She feels herself shake with laughter. “Thomas Paine.”

“Yes.” He toasts her, takes a sip of his beer, finishing it.

“But you quoted him wrong,” she says, feeling her pulse skipping. “Right after that first sentence he say that monarchy 'first excludes a man from the means of information, yet empowers him to act in cases where the highest judgement is required.'”

“True,” the man says, “I'm afraid I was going for the kill, maximum effect.”

“Morgana.” She reaches her hand out for him to shake.

His palm is warm when it wraps around her hand. “Merlin Emrys.” He looks at their clasped hands, adds, “Though you weren't quite straightforward with your name, were you?”

“Bold.” She brushes her fingers along his pulse point. “I like that in a man.” She takes in his blush and that makes her say, “Morgana Faye Elisabeth Tyronoe, Princess Royal.”

“I like Morgana better.” He drops her hand but the teasing light in his eyes keeps burning.

“To be honest,” Morgana says, “I like it better too. It's more real, you know.”

Merlin cocks his head. “And the rest of it isn't?”

“It's a social construct, what people make of me,” Morgana says, nodding at the people taking sneak photos of her. “Not who I am.”

“I should've thought,” he says, dipping his head, his voice going low, “that you'd stand for quite different principles.”

“Why should I be different from you?” she asks, placing her hand on her hip. “Why would ideas that are good for you not be good enough for me?”

He hums softly, looks down. “No reason.”

“I believe in equality,” Morgana says, drawing herself up with her body the way her brother would. “I don't believe titles define you or that they should.”

“I agree,” he says, flashing her a smile. “But you'll have to admit you don't expect a princess to be anti-monarchical.”

“I defy expectations.” Morgana turns to the barman. “A beer for my friend.”

Having recognised her, the barman ogles her instead of serving them their beer. 

Merlin tells Morgana, “You really shouldn't.”

“Now you're not going to disappoint me and say girls shouldn't buy boys drinks?” Morgana lifts her eyebrows. “Because that would be sexist.”

“No.” He breathes out. “No, but I'm not comfortable with people buying me things.”

“Even when it comes to an innocent drink?” Morgana asks. “Or is your reluctance due to my being a woman? Because in that case...”

“I swear that wasn't what I was thinking.” Merlin's hands cleave the air in denial. “Just... all right, go ahead and buy me a drink.”

Morgana slams a hand against the bar. “Barman, that drink.”

When a second pint glass slides into Merlin's hands, he says, “Cheers.”

“So what do you study?”

They move to a table in the corner. Morgana has a coffee. Merlin slowly sips at his beer. Following some gentle prodding on her part, he tells her about himself. Unlike her, he's doing Politics and Philosophy, is Welsh, and a small town boy. He says all that with a pride she wishes she had, with light shining in his eyes. It makes him look a little fey and not inconspicuously pretty. Chin in her hand, she leans forward, intent on listening to all that he has to say, charmed by his lilting accent and those tones of his that burrow low.

“You haven't asked about me,” she says, slanting her head. “How come?”

“Mmm.” Merlin bites his lip. “I thought you wouldn't be keen on questions. I suppose people keep trying to invade your privacy all the time.”

“And you think that royals have a right to that even if you don't like them?” She narrows her eyes but makes sure to give him no cue as to how to respond.

“I may not appreciate the institution,” Merlin says, looking her in the eyes, “but I believe in individual people's rights. Privacy's certainly one.”

She nudges his foot with hers, pulls an inch away then she fondles his knee, travelling back to his foot.

He goes red from collar to the tip of his forehead. “I—um.”

His flush gives her proof of her power over him. It doesn't take her more than a moment to imagine how it would look on the rest of his body, how he'd look naked and in her bed. The thought gives her a rush. “Come to mine.”

“What?” His eyes go wide and he gets this deer in headlights look that sits quite well on him.

“I thought the invitation was quite clear,” she says. “Do you want me to spell it out further?”

“You want to, er--” He rubs the side of his nose. His voice goes up. “Really?”

“Does it sound so surprising?” she asks, pursing her lips. “Or was your equality speech just empty talk?”

“Um?” Merlin's colour heightens.

“If you really think titles make no difference as to who you are, then why would you be surprised?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“No what?”

“They make no difference,” he says, lowering his gaze to the table. “It's just that you're so beautiful.”

She stands. “Last chance.”

Flailing a little, he shoots to his feet. In the process, he upends his chair, which he picks back up before straightening again. “Coming,” he says. He goes cross-eyed and adds, “I didn't mean it like that.”

“Pity,” she says. “I'd hoped you meant it like that.”

Merlin's lips move but he doesn't say anything until he chokes out, “I'll say goodbye to my friend over there.” He points backwards. “I won't be a sec.”

She watches him bound forwards and approach another man. He sidles from side to side, bows his head, murmurs something she can't hear.

The friend says, “Merlin, mate, come on, don't be a stick in the mud. It's too early to wall yourself up in your room. Live a little. Let's have another round.”

Merlin shakes his head, says something else.

His mate says, “Are you trying to tell me you hooked up with someone?”

Merlin does more side to side shifting. He murmurs something to his friend, who looks past Merlin to take her in. When he does, the friend's eyes widen and he claps Merlin so hard on the shoulder Merlin staggers back. “Oh my God, mate, hat off. Hat off.”

Merlin backs away, shakes his head no.

“Shite, Merlin, you hit it big,” his friend says, clapping his hands in approval.

By the time Merlin comes back to her, flashes are going off in his wake and people are craning in their chairs to keep him in frame on their phones. “I suppose I blew it,” he tells her, head sheepishly held down.

“No.” She takes his hand. “You haven't.”

“But now everyone knows,” Merlin says, his mouth hanging open.

“I don't care who knows.” Morgana shrugs. “I'm an adult and free to do what I want. My father and his PR team will just have to take it.”

“Well, if you're sure,” he says, though he's studying her closely.

She sticks her chest out and tugs on his hand. “One hundred per cent, so unless you're out?”

“No.” He clamps his lips together and shakes his head. “No.”

The moment Morgana and Merlin make for the door, Ranulf and Geraint fall into step behind her. They bundle them in the back of the four by four. Ranulf is the one who gets the driver seat and accelerates out of the parking area.

Merlin places both hands on the seat and looks out the window with some apprehension. Before she can lose him, she palms his nape, pulls him to her. She murmurs in his ear, “We're almost there. Don't you want to be there?”

She sees him gulp, his fingers curl around the edge of the seat. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

When they get to hers, she sits him on the sofa. He looks around, jiggles his leg. “I thought you'd live somewhere posh, not an off campus house.”

“Really?” she says, kicking off her shoes and unbuttoning her dress. “I hate pretentious places.”

“I like it here.” At first he tries to look around as if her furniture is of interest to him, but the moment she slips out of her tights his gaze focuses on her. “It's...” He licks his lips. “Cosy.”

“I'm glad you like my rooming arrangements,” she says, unhooking her bra.

He swallows, zeroes in on her breasts. In her knickers only, she walks over to him, reaches a hand out to him and helps him up. She cups his face with both hands, traces his features with her fingertips. They're sharp for the most part, cut glass, but softer areas stand out too, like his lips. She rises on her toes and grazes her mouth to his. He bows his head to match the touch. He gasps when she softens, grabs her hips when her tongue wets his lips, skirts past them, and meets his.

He kisses her deep and sweet, caresses her face as he does. “I'm going to have fun with you, aren't I?” she says, not sure whether she's teasing him or she just wants to egg him on, see what he does with it.

Merlin pulls her closer and she goes, places his hand between her legs, bears down so as to give him a cue, set the rhythm. He pulls her knickers aside, teasing her with light touches of his fingers, his thumb. She knows she's wetting him as soon as he starts stroking and rubbing at her, even before he slips a finger between her lips and parts her. She can do nothing but move against the pressure of his hand. It's a dull, slow thrumming of pleasure she wants to fan.

She's hot about the face and it burns her. It's not shame, though there's a measure of embarrassment to this. She had wanted to keep her cool, to confuse this sweet boy with her body ‘til he lost it entirely. But faced with the physicality of her now, he doesn't seem to be as green as she'd believed him. He isn't quite as shy with his actions as he is with his words, with his blushes.

There's something about the way he kisses her open mouthed ‘til his breath catches, about the way he uses the pressure of his hand that makes him quite good. She can't control him, what he'll do next, how he'll do it, and that sends a thrill through her, one she hadn't expected to feel with this bashful boy who had dropped his gaze when she was stripping.

She soaks her underwear, sighs in his mouth when he thumbs her just right. She wants him inside, his finger, his tongue, his cock. She wants to ride him; she wants to start things right now, have him right where she is. But she doesn't let herself follow her whim. She'll take her time with this one. Before her insides tighten and the warmth inside her blooms ripe, she steps back.

He goes wide eyed. With a low voice he asks, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” She eyes him from head to foot. His mouth is parted, reddened. He looks sweaty around the temples and he's tenting his trousers. “Follow me.”

She leads him upstairs to her bedroom, doesn't turn on the lights. It doesn't matter because there's enough light coming from the window that she can steer by.

On her way to the bed, she slips off her knickers. They're a mess anyway. She turns around, sees him watch her out of wide eyes. He pulls his shirt over his head, unfastens his belt, toes off his shoes. He sucks in a breath, as if the brush of clothing hurts, then he pushes down his trousers. She only catches a brief glimpse of his nakedness. His body is as streamlined as his face, all sharp segments, keen angles and long limbs. He moves over to her, embraces her. He's warm; his heart beats fast against her palm. His kisses are hungrier now.

He pushes her onto her back on the bed, rests his weight onto her. She spreads her legs round him, arches off so she can rub her lower body against his. She feels his cock catch between her legs, warm and hard, wet at the tip. His hands hold her head; he dips his tongue in her mouth. He bites her chin and under it. He kisses her throat and collarbones. Tracing the outline of her nipples with his tongue, he holds one to his mouth and kisses it ‘til he's sucking on a pebble.

She trembles and buries her hands in his hair, tugs. When her stomach hollows as she arches off the bed, he mouths the outline of each rib. He puts his lips to her stomach, peppers it with kisses.

He gets his face between her legs, rubs his mouth along her thighs, puts his tongue between her folds and begins licking her. She feels the sweat build on her body, the warmth gush low inside her ‘til it blooms bright and dull, more and more insistent. It burns brighter and brighter. The release comes for her with a gasp, followed by a sigh.

He stops, has sensed it.

He's about to vault off, when she grabs him by the hip. He's been generous with her. She wants to re-establish some sort of balance. Make him shake and tremble as she has. She wants the upper hand back. She strokes him with her hand until he's holding himself tight. One handed, she strokes the tip of his cock until he's shedding pre-come like a teenager.

She's the one who puts the condom on him, the one who guides him inside. She lies back when he's seated. She smiles challengingly, clenches. His mouth slackens and he frowns. She can tell he doesn't know what to do to stop himself from coming. She grins, bears down on him. He falls on top of her with little grace, until they're plastered together. He breathes fast against her mouth. He closes his eyes and, though he's trembling, he pulls himself up. Arms taut either side of her head, he starts moving.

She feels him shift inside her, pulling back and forth. His pace is steady, comes in slow strokes that feel good. He places his hands under her hips, pulls her to him, As he moves his cock in and out, she shoves back, wanting to get him further and further in. The throb of orgasm comes easily for her the second time around; it's gentler, pleasant. He starts coming a few moments after, his face creased in ripples. She laughs. He flops on top of her, heavy and lax, still cradled inside her. She doesn't want to move yet but she doesn't want him to know she's enjoying the moment as much as she does. “You were fun,” she says instead.

“Mmm?” he asks and she sees his eyebrows go up.

“Men!” She laughs.

He nods his head in agreement though he can't have understood what she meant at all. His eyes close.

She pinches him in the side. “You could, you know.”

“Oh,” he says and moves, settling down by her side, as he tries to get the condom off. “Sorry.”

“I didn't want you to get too comfy.”

“I promise I'll be on my toes,” he says, dropping the used condom in the bin under the bedside table. “Can I sleep here?”

“For tonight.” She moves her body up the bed, rests her head on the pillow. She smiles.

“Thanks.” He punches his own pillow, slips his arm under it, and places his head on it.

“You're welcome,” she says, kicking him in the shin. “But don't get used to it.”

“Promise I won't,” he says, mumbling the words. Shortly after, he's out like a light.

 

  
[](http://s845.photobucket.com/user/pouletroti/media/6d64c568-bc10-4384-95d3-5a6a828b4e2a.png.html)

****

She wakes to Merlin hopping naked around the room, boxers in hand.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep.

His head snaps up in surprise; slowly though the surprise seeps out of his expression and he smiles toothily. “I was getting my clothes back on. I've got to be in the main quad in ten.”

“Oh so you were sneaking out.” She makes sure to make her tone icy.

“No!” He straightens out of his crouch, his hands go lax and he drops his boxers. He stands there naked, his cock soft against his thigh. Her eyes go to it and he makes a very feeble attempt at cupping himself before hanging his hands by his side. “I wasn't! It's just that I've got an appointment. The Uni's LGBTQ association is doing a march and I've got to be there.”

“The LGBTQ association?”

“Uh, yes,” Merlin says, scratching at his temple. “I'm bi.”

“I guessed when you said LGBTQ,” Morgana says, biting her cheek so she won't smile. “It was a pretty big hint.”

“I'm one of the heads so I really have to go.”

“So you're a bigwig?”

“Yes. Well, no, Merlin says, flailing his hands. “We're a democratic group. I was elected. I swear though that I wasn't trying to sneak out on you.”

“I hope you don't think me that paranoid,” Morgana says, walking over to him. She stands across from him, hear head to the side. “Do you?”

“No.” Merlin wags his head. “But I generally would spend some time, the morning after. I'm not one for--”

“Merlin,” Morgana says, placing a hand on his shoulder, “we're not getting married.”

“No, I know, but--”

“No buts--” She smiles. “I don't want you to think that way. You're sweet but I don't.”

Merlin's forehead creases. “I don't think I'm getting it.”

“Never mind,” she says, ruffling his hair. “Can I come too?”

“Where?”

“To your parade, you silly goose!”

Merlin's mouth works. “Are you allowed?”

Actually, she ought to discuss that with the Royal Household Press Office, but Merlin needn't know that. “I'm not a child. I can do what I want.” Her father better learn that. “I'm going.”

“I'm glad you're coming,” he says, reaching a hand out to her. “Shower?”

They join the parade ten minutes late. Merlin does a lot of apologising to his mates, charming them by way of smiles and blushes. That gets him their immediate forgiveness of his mates. When all's good again, he's given posters and banners to carry. Before they fall into step with the group, Merlin introduces her to his friends. “Mordred Jones,” Merlin says, “our secretary.”

“Hi.” Mordred gives her a cautious smile.

“Morgana.”

Mordred only nods in return.

Merlin says, “Morgause is our women's centre co-ordinator.”

Morgause takes her hand in hers, smiles a smile reminiscent of Mordred's, though one that is more charged, and squeezes her palm. When she lets go, she gives her a banner to carry around. “Here,” she says, and threads her arm through hers. “You should be front and centre.”

Before long Morgana is posing with the banner, students and town people taking photos of her. Some of the latter even join the march. Merlin, who's fallen a little bit behind, catches up with her, leans close and asks, “Are you sure you're comfortable with this much attention?”

“Yes,” she says, making sure the banner she's holding is visible. “Utterly and completely.”

 

****

 

“Lending our support is essential,” Arthur says, rotating on the stool so he can fix his eyes on the camera as he has been told to. “If we just listen, we can help children. That is why--” Arthur clears his throat to buy time to read his cue board. “That is why, as Prince of Wales, I'm supporting Charity for Children.” He hopes he's pausing in the right place. He's not that great on oratory but he's studied the text before. “I hope you'll consider doing it too.”

“And cut,” the director calls before pulling off his headphones. “That was very good, sir.”

Two assistants come over and free Arthur of his microphone. “Are you sure?” Arthur has a feeling his delivery was less than spectacular.

“Oh, yes, sir.” The director nods to one of his assistants and crosses over to Arthur. “We have a take. All we need is some royal endorsement and having you on tape is more than enough.”

“Oh.” Arthur looks down. “If you feel that was fine.”

“Oh, yes,” the director says, presenting one of his hands to shake. He then leans away from Arthur to tell his assistant. “What's the protocol again. I'm not supposed to shake hands, right?”

“I think a handshake is fine.” The assistant goggles. “At least I think so? It was casual touches that are a no-no? Either way I think, erm, the royal should have started it?” The assistant's cheeks fill like a chipmunks when air blows out of his mouth. “I don't know, Mr Blevins, I read the etiquette manual in the small hours.”

Arthur shouldn't act as though he has overheard the conversation, but he can't really stop himself. “A handshake will be fine.” He reaches his hand out to prove it.

“Oh good, good,” the director says, giving Arthur a forceful shake. “Anyway, you were quite excellent, sir. A born deliverer of lines. We'll retire Mr. Cumberbatch and give you all his roles.”

“Maybe it's too early to call me a thespian,” Arthur says, shifting in place. “But thank you.”

“It was an honour,” the director continues before he's cut off by Leon's entrance.

“Your Highness,” Leon says, making his way to him, “I'm afraid there's been a hiccup in our schedule and we have to rush.”

It's only when he's sitting in the back of the car with Leon that Arthur says, “I thought I had the evening free.”

“There's been a change of plans, sir,” Leon tells him, activating the screen of his iPad. “His Majesty wants to see you.”

“My father?” Arthur arches an eyebrow. “I thought he was too busy for that.”

“All I know is that his team wants you at the palace, sir,” Leon tells him as he resumes thumbing at his tablet.

“You're hiding something.” Leon's the type to look you in the eyes when he has unpleasant news to deliver.

“I'm hiding nothing,” Leon says, his eyes still resolutely on the screen of his device. “I was simply told it was some kind of urgent business.”

A steward throws open the doors to the King's office, lets Arthur and Leon in, steps back and closes the doors behind them. Leon falls behind in a corner; Arthur advances.

Uther Pendragon is sitting behind his desk. It's a tidy surface. Two leather binders sit on one side; a few table ornaments, among which are a magnifying glass and globe, occupy the other. At the desk's wings Ragnor and Mab, the Royal PR team, stand.

Arthur braces for the worst but makes himself sound as calm as he can. “You wanted me here, sir?”

“Ah yes, Arthur,” Father says, clasping his hands together. “Something has come to my attention.”

Arthur's gaze slides over Ragnor and Mab. They're staring straight ahead, wearing blank faces, but Arthur knows they're behind this. “I haven't done anything remotely questionable,” he says. Sometimes he even wishes he had, but the truth is his late track record would pass the severest scrutiny. “The last time I did anything anyone would raise eyebrows at I was still at Eton.”

“I'm not talking about you, Arthur.”

Arthur gapes slightly and his brain blanks. “Then why did you ask me here?”

Father compresses his lips. He gestures at the chair, “Please, take a seat, Arthur. This is rather complicated.”

Arthur looks over his shoulder to Leon, who shrugs. More at a loss than before, Arthur takes a seat. “So what are we talking about?”

“Your sister.” Father's face thins at the cheeks, gets that drained look it always does when he refers to Morgana. “She has...” Father folds his hands together and gestures with them. “She raised some concerns.”

Ragnor leans forward and places an open folder before Arthur. It contains a number of photographs. Some are black and white and rather glossy; others are in colour, very sharp, high definition. A small number are so blurry Arthur's fairly positive they're print outs of mobile snaps. They all to the last one represent Morgana. “These are what?” Arthur asks, picking up one of the photos. “Paparazzi shots of Morgana?”

“Some of them are,” Mab points out. “The glossy ones are.”

“You'll notice your sister is with someone in those photos,” Father says, his brow filling with creases.

Arthur studies the pictures better. The blurry ones show Morgana sitting at the same table with a dark-haired bloke whose features are severely under-pixelated. The others are shots of Morgana taking part in a protest march. She's holding a banner high up over her head; the people around her are bearing similar signs. All of the photos feature the same man who was in the first series of candids. The paparazzi pictures show more of him. He's a lanky one with coltish legs and a generally lean build. With his skinny jeans, ratty jacket and multi-coloured scarf he looks like Hollywood's idea of an activist type. All in all, these images tell him nothing new about Morgana. “She's made another controversial friendship, is that it?”

“She's gone further this time,” Father says, rubbing his temple.

“What has she done?” Arthur says, threading laughter in his voice in the hopes that it will deflate his Father's anger, help him see the funny side of this. “Made friends with another coke snorting model? Subscribed to another embarrassing pet cause? Partied ‘til late?”

“Worse, far worse,” Father says, his voice brooking no argument.

Arthur sighs. “Sir, with all due respect, I hardly think anything Morgana has done can be so bad.”

“In PR terms, it is.”

“She's young.” The dialling it down approach having failed, Arthur makes sure to sound as reasonable as he can so he can persuade his father this is none too bad. “I'm sure the general public will forgive a little wildness.”

“You're young too and you haven't given rise to this sort of incident.” Father lifts an eyebrow and continues on, “but that's beside the point. I'm not angry with Morgana because of some minor misdemeanour. This is serious.”

“What?” Arthur scoffs. “What can have she done?”

“She is seeing the young man in the picture.” Father gestures to Ragnor.

Ragnor deposits a blown up version of the man's picture in front of Arthur, presumably so Arthur can make it out better. “Are we even sure?” Arthur looks up. “I mean, the press can make a mountain out of a molehill and straight away make up romances that don't exist.”

“We're positive,” Father says. “We have an eye on Morgana and she is indeed going out with the man in the photo.”

Knowing this whole being watched thing applies to him as well, Arthur spares a moment to mourn his own freedom, before saying, “All right, let's say she is. The man in question has a dubious dress sense but that's hardly the end of the world.”

A vein on Father's temple bulges. “I telephoned her this morning to tell her to drop this individual. She got incensed and said she won't because she's serious about him.”

Arthur blinks. “She's serious about Photo Bloke?”

Mab jumps into the fray. “Photo Bloke's real name is Merlin Emrys, Your Highness. 21, from Abergavenny. Only child, single mother, low income household. About to graduate in Philosophy.”

“In short your sister is seeing someone entirely unsuitable,” Father says. With a moue of disdain he adds, “he's not only from a frankly embarrassing background, he fancies himself an activist too.”

Father's lifts his hand to cue him and Ragnor says, “He belongs to Celtic League, Friends of the Earth, and Animal Aid. Votes for Plaid Cymru and has written for a number of left wing student publications. Had an article accepted for publication by The Socialist. He's one of the heads of the Durham University LGBTQ Association.”

“A crowd stirrer.” Father's mouth droops at the corner. “Albeit one that seems to have been gathering more attention than he should have.”

Arthur looks to Mab for an explanation.

She says, “Ever since a name was put to his face, this guy has been trending on Twitter like mad. Look up the hashtags #goemrys and #commoner-charming.”

Father's mouth twitches in clear annoyance. “Your sister has landed us in a quagmire. We can't veto him without raising public objections but we can't allow the royal household to get entangled in the scandal he would bring about.”

“I see,” Arthur says, taking in the photos and Father's displeased face. “What I don't see here is what I have to do with it.”

“You must stop your sister.”

Arthur's eyes widen; he laughs. “You do realise Morgana will never do anything I advise her to?” They have such opposing views and she's sometimes so infuriating that it's hard for them not to butt heads. “She's the most stubborn person I've ever met.”

“I don't care how you do it,” Father says, using the same authoritative tone he'd gone for when he'd told Arthur he had to get a First or consider enrolling, “but I want you to put a spanner in the works of her relationship with Emrys.”

“You want me to what?” Arthur says, not sure he's heard this right.

“I want you,” Father repeats very slowly and very clearly as if Arthur's not very clever, “to break them up.”

“But--”

“I don't care how you do it – buy him off, threaten him, throw other girls at him.” Father gesticulates. “But get rid of him.”

“Father, I can't.” Arthur's eyes go wide with shock. “I can't do that to my sister.”

“In the long run your sister will thank you for helping her out of this mistake.” The creases in Father's cheeks pull in expression of his annoyance. “Once she has matured enough, she will be grateful to you.”

For some reason, Arthur doesn't think Morgana will be happy with Arthur raining on her parade. “Father, we're talking about breaking her heart.”

Father scoffs. “You don't think she's really in love with this person, do you?” He eyes the photographs with distaste written in his eyes. “She's only picked him to make me angry.”

Needing to find the right words, Arthur waits before replying. “Don't you think you're stretching it a bit?”

Father's eyes flash. “She's done it before and you know it.”

While that is true, Arthur wants to proceed cautiously about it. He doesn't know whether Father's allegation's true. “She's never made this big a production before.” He breathes out. “Morgana's not stupid. She wouldn't have got caught if she didn't want to.”

“You know how the media is,” Father says. “She's using them to let me know she will do as she wants.”

Arthur thinks that Father is being a little paranoid, though he wouldn't put it past Morgana to toy with them a little. Since he can't think of a way to persuade his father to let things go, he comes at it from another angle. “Father, what you're asking me to do is...” Immoral, he wants to say, but perhaps that's not the best word to use. “Unethical.”

Father stands rather abruptly and walks to the nearest window. “I don't care about mincing words, Arthur. As monarchs, we stand for something. A great concept that Morgana's is being disrespectful towards.”

Arthur says, “I hardly think--”

“You'll do as I say and that's it,” Father says, so abruptly it's like a shot in the dark.

“Why me?” Father has so many people at his beck and call, surely someone else could do this. Someone who won't be hurt so much as Arthur will in the process. “That's what I don't get.”

“Stubborn Morgana may be,” Father says, “but she's more likely to listen to a family member than to a complete stranger. Besides, I know you won't be cruel.”

Arthur opens his mouth in protest, but no complaint issues. He looks at Leon and Leon shrugs and casts his head down. With no support from that corner, and none likely to come from others, Arthur folds. “I'll try my best.”

“You're dismissed.” Father steps away from the window and takes a seat behind his desk, opening a file. Noticing that Arthur's still there, he adds, “You can go now.”

Arthur leaves the palace with a strong feeling of misgiving as to what he's about to do.

 

***** 

 

The car stops before a yellow-brick detached house nestled at the end of a mews. With not a soul passing by, the area, although quite close to historical Durham, seems pretty quiet. A tree grows in front of the ground floor window facing the street. Its branches spread out low in a shower of deep green. Because of their position, they must nearly efface the view. And stop anyone from peeking in.

Putting on his sunglasses, Arthur exits the car.

Percival and Owain have preceded him, but Arthur tells them, “I think I'm going to do this alone.”

“But, sir,” Percival says.

“I scarcely think I'm going to run into any danger visiting my sister.” Arthur eyes the house standing in front of him. “Am I?”

“No, but we're under orders to follow you at all times.”

Arthur hates the idea that they are, but unfortunately he can't tell them that. By trailing him around they're just doing their duty. “Not this time,” Arthur says, climbing the steps to Morgana's. “Family matters.”

Percival and Owain fall back.

When Morgana opens the door, she has her hair in a towel and is only covered by a shirt. “Arthur, my dear brother, long time no see.”

Though he had meant to start with a decidedly different opener, Arthur says, “For God's sake, Morgana, you can't get the door like that.”

“Like what?” Morgana asks with a tilt of her head.

“Half naked,” he says, waving his hands about. “Paparazzi could be hiding in the bushes.”

“Let them hide,” Morgana says with a shrug. “Let them take as many pics as they want.”

Arthur mumbles, “And there's the rub.”

“What did you say?” Morgana narrows her eyes at him.

“Might I come inside?”

“You interrupted my pampering session.”

Arthur tries to tamp down on the wave of irritation that crashes over him. So he doesn't sound calm when he says, “I just drove all the way from London to see you!”

Morgana rolls her eyes and huffs. “You mean your chauffeur drove you all the way here while you comfortably sat in the back-seat.”

“The point still stands,” Arthur says, his facial muscles straining in an attempt to control his expression. He doesn't want to look as if he's about to murder her. “I made an effort to come and see you. The least you could do is invite me in!”

Morgana tips up an eyebrow but makes way for him. “Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to put something on.”

Arthur has only been at Morgana's twice before, but he finds his way to the lounge easily enough. With Morgana gone, he pockets his sunglasses and has a look around. The place hasn't changed much since his last visit. The furniture is still the same motley array of Ikea pieces Morgana thinks an expression of her egalitarian credo and higher end commodities. The usual amount of books covers the shelves, making them bend under their weight. Even the number of pillows sitting on a row on the sofa hasn't varied – three on one side, three on the other. What's new is the scattering of activist groups leaflets lying on the table. They come in various colours and are made from disparate material -- from recycled paper to cardboard -- and they seem to be arranged by type. Since Morgana never collected any of those before, they're clear evidence of the influence of this new guy in her life.

Of the man himself there is no trace. Not only is he not in the house, but there's no photo of him lying around. No object that could belong to him is in sight.

By the time Morgana comes back, she's wearing a skirt and blouse and her hair has been gathered in a rather damp pony tail.

“So,” she says, sitting across from him on the sofa. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to see you.” Arthur clasps his hand on his knee and jiggles his foot. “Am I not allowed to see my sister from time to time?”

Morgana looks sharply at Arthur. “I thought you were too busy with your heir to the throne business.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says, though he's not sure he's really trying to prevent her from making the point, considering he probably deserves it.

“Why are you really here, Arthur?”

Arthur takes a big breath. “The press is talking about you.”

“The same way it's talking about you.” She presses her lips together.

“Granted, they'll always hound us.” Arthur concedes the point with a nod. “But you must know you're in all the papers.”

“So?” Morgana asks, her mouth thinning. “Should I stop living? Should I wall myself in and live like a recluse?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I said,” Arthur says, at pains not to roll his eyes.

“Then what are you trying to say?” Morgana looks pointedly at him.

“That you could use caution.” Arthur has to pick his way carefully. He knows how reactive Morgana is just as he understands how obstinate their father can be. He must choose his words judiciously so that neither of them entrenches themselves in their positions. “That you could pick your battles.”

“Define this ‘picking your battles’ idea of yours.”

Arthur uncrosses his legs, places both feet wide on the floor. “This person--”

“Merlin, you mean?” Morgana cocks her head like an angry bird that's about to pluck your eye out.

“Merlin, right.” Arthur is trying really hard not to sound like his father. Most of the time it looks like an uphill battle he's doomed to lose. “Are you sure Merlin's the right person for you?”

Morgana steeples an eyebrow, its arch severe. “What are you trying to say?”

“You know father won't approve and unless you're sure he's the one,” Arthur says, not entirely clear on what he's trying to say anymore, “maybe you'd save yourself some pain if you let him go.”

Morgana starts upright. “So what you're saying is that I should dump him?”

Arthur blinks, opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything because he needs to order his ideas first.

“Let me guess,” Morgana says, her voice rising. “It's because he's not suitable? Because he's a commoner?”

Morgana's succeeded both in guessing what Father said and in doing a pretty good impression of him. She certainly has the tone right. It may be eerily well done, but it doesn't help Arthur mediate. “You can't pursue a serious relationship with him. Father won't have it.”

“Because he's a commoner?” Morgana repeats, folding her arms and drumming her fingers.

“Well, yes,” Arthur finds himself saying though that's not exactly how he meant it. The subtleties of discourse, however, are perennially lost on Morgana. “Oh, fuck it, I didn't mean it like that!”

“Then how?” Morgana scowls at him. “Because from where I'm standing what you said sounds pretty awful.”

“You know how.”

“Please, enlighten me.”

Arthur takes in a big breath. “Father cares about one's pedigree--”

“Because people are like dogs?”

“Evidently not,” Arthur says, wanting to bite his tongue in frustration. He's got a good education and media training. He knows how to express himself. It's just that Morgana makes him forget logic. “But neither Father nor the establishment will accept him.”

“So you think people should be judged on the basis of entirely accidental circumstances like birth or finances?”

“I never said that!” Arthur stands up and throws both hands up in the air. “I'm just saying that you'll run into a wall of nos, and his background is only going to make it worse.”

“Because he's an ordinary man and not titled?”

Arthur gets where Morgana's going with this. “No. But you're ignoring the way things work.”

“And how do things work?”

“Father won't approve of him.” Arthur counts item one off his finger.

Before he can get to item two, Morgana says, “I don't care what Uther thinks.” She pauses and at first Arthur thinks she's done, but then she sends him a pointed glance and adds, “I don't let him rule my life.”

Arthur bows his head, shakes it. It hurts to think she believes that Arthur is so easily dictated to. It's hard to ignore that fact that his own sister doesn't understand what position he's in, how he has no choice. But he can't change her view of him, not overnight. Seeing as that's impossible, he tries one last ditch attempt to reason with her. “He won't know the etiquette.”

“We both know etiquette means nothing!” Morgana says. “You may not say it in Uther's hearing but you don't like it either.”

Arthur doesn't say anything to that, because he finds that he can't. “He has ideas.”

“No, you're right.” Morgana scoffs. “We all should go for brainless idiots.”

“Agendas,” Arthur says, throwing a pointed look at the flyers on Morgana's table. “He represents a view, a stance. A stance a considerable number of the public won't support.”

“So you researched him,” Morgana says, her facial muscles stiffening with tension. “Did Uther send you to brow beat me into not seeing Merlin?”

Arthur can't deny that that's what happened because they're both aware of how it works. “Morgana, I just want you to be happy.”

“Well, you may be all right with letting Uther dictate what you do,” Morgana says. Then tapping her chest she adds, “But I won't.”

“Morgana, please.”

“You can tell Uther I won't have it.” She turns her head. The pose highlights her clenched jaw. “If he still wants to see me over the holidays, he'll have to invite Merlin too.”

“Morgana--”

She opens the door to the lounge. “You can go now.”

“I just want peace,” he barks at the door Morgana has just slammed on him.

When Arthur emerges from Morgana's, Percival and Owain exchange a look. Wordlessly, Owain slides behind the wheel, while Percival opens the car's door for him.

As Owain drives off, Arthur sinks against the plush leather seat and extracts his mobile from his pocket. With a swipe and press of his thumb, he initiates the call.

“Arthur, I'm in Australia.”

“Hello, Father,” Arthur says. “And, yes, I remember, but I thought you'd want to know what I have to say.”

His father's voice sounds distant when he says, “So tell me. I'm receiving the Prime Minister in ten minutes.”

“I'm just back from visiting Morgana,” Arthur says, choosing his words carefully because talking to Father is more of a minefield than addressing his sister. “And let's say Morgana isn't amenable to persuasion.”

“That won't do.” Father must be pacing because Arthur can hear the sound of his soles clopping on whatever surface he must be striding across. “This situation is not acceptable.”

“You can't point a gun to her head.” Arthur taps his foot on the mat. “At this point there's nothing much you can do. You'll just have to take a step back and--”

Father interrupts him with a dry implosion of words. “Absurd, Arthur. Completely absurd!”

Arthur focuses on the stretch of road trailing by, on the Victorian brick houses lining the road, before committing himself to a reply. “Father, I can't see how we can interfere at this point.”

“Talk to the individual she's seeing and get him to back off.”

Arthur squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I don't--”

“Don't let me down, Arthur,” Father says and hangs up.

Arthur throws his head back against the seat rest, groans and closes his eyes.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Owain asks.

Arthur opens his eyes and stares at the car ceiling. “No. No, everything's fine.” He straightens and when he notices the car is heading out of town, he adds, “But we're sleeping in Durham tonight. It seems I still have some business here.”

 

**** 

 

Merlin Emrys lives in Claypath, in a narrow red-bricked building with a blue door. A car, a rusty white Ford from the nineties, is parked by it, the boot open. Inside it sit a number of cardboard boxes held shut with sticky tape. The door itself stands ajar.

“Must we stay outside this time too?” Owain asks after having shared a look with Percival.

“I'm afraid so,” Arthur says, eyeing the house with some misgiving. “Just wait here, all right?”

Percival stands to attention and Owain nods.

Before Arthur can make it to the blue door, a brown-haired young man emerges from the interior of the house. He's hugging a box and cursing under his breath. The few words Arthur catches falling from his mouth would make a sailor blush. For a moment Arthur thinks he's the Merlin fellow his sister is seeing, and his hopes sink. But then he focuses his sights on the man and realises this bloke doesn't really have much in common with the one who was photographed with Morgana. Relieved, he approaches him and says, “Excuse me, I'm looking for Merlin Emrys.”

The man with the box stops in his tracks. “Oh shit,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You're the royal shit-head, aren't you?”

Arthur can safely say he's never been addressed like that before, at least not to his face. Some fazed Twitterers have left a few scathing remarks on the palace's official account, but he's never been called a shit-head until now.

“I'll act as if I haven't heard that,” Arthur says.

“Aw, turning me to stone with the power of posh, are you.” The man glares at him.

Arthur counts to three so he won't say something he'll regret by the time this idiot has repeated it to all and sundry and sold the story to The Mirror. “Yes, yes, that's exactly what I'm doing.” Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “Or perhaps for the ones among us who are not certifiably paranoid, I'm simply looking for Mr Emrys.”

The man puts the box down, sticks his chest out, and gets in his face. “Oi, it's because of the likes of you that we've been hounded like dogs in our own home.”

Arthur snorts.

“So you think that's not a problem?” The man goes cross-eyed. “We've had people staking out our house, searching our rubbish, following us to courses and only because a bloody pampered princess is seeing my mate!”

“You're talking about my sister here,” Arthur says, biting the inside of his cheek. “I'd appreciate it if you chose more appropriate language.”

“Or what?” the man takes a step forward, and he's so close Arthur can smell his breath.

Percival and Owain push off the car and move towards them.

At the same time Merlin Emrys – for this is definitely the same man the press has candids of – appears on the doorstep. He doesn't look the same as he did in the paparazzi takes, mostly because, barefoot and shirtless as he is, he's wearing far fewer items of clothing this time. With his facial muscles strained and his forehead crumpled in a frown, he also looks considerably angrier. “Will, what's going on?”

“This royal git here was looking for you,” Will says, gesticulating wildly at Arthur – and very nearly poking his eye out. “I was telling him where to shove it.”

“Will.” Emrys crosses his arms across his bare chest, and Arthur has to give it to Morgana: though the man isn't bodybuilder fit, he's easy on the eyes. “Just let it go, all right?”

Will half turns so his body is angled towards Emrys. “But he's the reason we're having to move out.”

Emrys shakes his head and sighs, drops his arms. “Will, you know he's not directly responsible, don't you? It's the press that has done this.”

“And you find that fair?” Will asks, throwing his arms up. “Only because these privileged--”

“You know I don't,” Emrys says, shoulders sloping. “But what can we do?”

“Tell him to fuck off!”

“I'm not doing that.” Emrys shakes his head. He turns towards Arthur. “You're here to see me?”

Given his initial welcome, Arthur is momentarily taken aback. “Uh, yes. I wanted to a have a word with you.”

Will kicks at a loose pebble. “Well, if you're going to have him in our house, I'm gonna take a walk.” So saying, Will deposits the box he'd been carrying outside in the boot of the car, slips his hands in his pockets and takes off, whistling overly loudly.

Watching his friend go, Emrys scratches at his hair, then half spins around so he's facing Arthur once more. “You'd better come inside.”

Arthur follows Emrys past the narrow hall and into a small lounge. It's washed in green but the paint-job is rather splotchy and there are damp stains just above the skirting board and around the radiator. Boxes are strewn around on the floor. Some of them gape open while others have already been sealed. The bookcase is already half empty but the volumes still on display are all heavy lifters: Marx, Mill, Sartre,  Lévi-Strauss. Some photo frames stand among the books. They all picture Emrys with various people. As if that's his default mode, he's invariably sporting a toothy grin. In spite of the various people crowding his snaps, he has no photo of Morgana on show. Arthur briefly wonders if it's because he doesn't want others to ask questions or because their relationship is new.

“So,” Emrys says, grabbing some sello-tape from on top of the mantelpiece, “what did you want to talk about?”

Arthur sticks his hand in his pockets, gathers his thoughts and says, “My sister.”

“Ah.” Emrys goes on his haunches, places a hand on top of the box's flap, bites of a length of sticky tape and applies it to the cardboard lengths. What Arthur takes home from that is that Emrys has long fingers, graceful hands that move with purpose and yet without any abruptness of motion. “Of course.”

“Yes, well,” Arthur says, inclining his head. “So you're moving.”

Emrys has the roll of tape in his mouth when he next speaks so his enunciation isn't the clearest. “As you can see.”

“It mustn't have been easy.” He may have a motive for saying this, but it's not as if he doesn't truly sympathise. “The fall-out.”

Emrys moves over to the next box and tapes it shut. “It's been two weeks of utter craziness.”

Arthur grimaces. “Of a kind you're not equipped to deal with.”

Emrys smiles at him, the same grin he was flashing in the photos on the bookshelf. It's an open smile, welcoming. It's an invitation to friendship, a show of camaraderie. “You can say that out loud. Morgana says to ignore it, but, it's not that easy.”

“Your friend hinted at the constant violation of your privacy.”

Emrys looks up from his packing and smiles wistfully. “He hates it. Not that I like it, but he's really miffed. That's why he chewed your head off out there.” Emrys' smile tilts sheepishly. “I apologise for that.”

Arthur looks down. “You're not the one who should do that.”

After a quick jeans dust off, Emrys climbs to his feet. “I'm used to apologising on Will's behalf.”

“You're a good friend.” And doesn't that make it harder for Arthur to do what he has to?

“I hope so.”

“Don't you agree with your friend?” Arthur asks. “About me and Morgana? Our being, to quote him, shit-heads?”

“I don't like the idea of people being considered inherently superior because of an accident of birth,” Emrys says. “But I have nothing against either you or Morgana personally.”

“So you're okay with dealing with all the fanfare?” Arthur gestures at the boxes, a clear sign of Emrys not coping well with the invasion of his privacy.

“No!” Emrys wags his head. “I believe in respecting people and those media hounds aren't doing that.”

“I agree.” Arthur has a lot of experience to fall back on. “But that comes with the territory.”

“It's shitty territory, if you ask me,” Emrys says, with a moue of distaste.

“Yes.” Arthur picks Emrys up on his statement. “Now the question is whether you want to live with it.”

“Is this the bit where you ask me if I'm serious about your sister?” Emrys asks with a laugh.

“No.” Arthur's mouth firms as he braces to say what he's planning to. He has no particular wish to – in fact the idea he has to do this makes him more than moderately sick – but he also has no way out. Not if he doesn’t want to catch hell from his father. “This is the bit where I ask you whether it wouldn't be easier for you to take a step back.”

“What do you mean?” Emrys asks, a frown lining his forehead.

“You had an easy life of it,” Arthur says, imagining what Emrys' life had to have been like before Morgana stormed into it. “Now the press is going to turn that life upside down. You won't even know what hit you.”

“So what do you suggest I do?”

“Take your life back,” Arthur says, making a point of looking Emrys in the eyes when he says it. This may be distasteful to him, and he'd rather not, but since he's taken it upon himself to do it, the least he could do is take full responsibility. “It may be easier in the long run. We....” Arthur licks his lips. “We can help you with that in more ways than one.”

Emrys’ brow ripples with even more creases. “Meaning what exactly?”

“We can offer you support,” Arthur says. “Help you get your life back in order. Assist you in finding some kind of occupation away from all this, something that will give you a leg up both financially and in carving out a space for yourself in the field of your choice.”

“Oh my God,” Emrys says, jutting his jaw out and giving him a head-shake. “Morgana was right.”

“About what?”

“About what her family would do,” Emrys explains. “She rang me up yesterday and I told her she was being paranoid.” He clucks his tongue. “But, no, she was right. Because there you are, actually trying to buy me off.”

“I didn't do that!”

“Oh, please,” Emrys says, compressing his lips into a thin line. “You worded it carefully, but that's exactly what you meant.”

“I--”

“I may be poor but I'm not an idiot.” Hurt suffuses Emrys' face.

Arthur can't help but feel a wash of shame that twists his guts in a knot. That said, he can't relent, not without disappointing his father. “Mr Emrys,” Arthur starts again though he has no idea how to mediate anymore. “I understand your position but--”

“There are no buts,” Emrys says. “There can be only one motivation behind that offer of yours.”

“That's quite simplistic.”

“No, it isn't,” Emrys says. “You don't know me at all so the only reason you can have to keep me away from your family is that you think I'm by nature beneath it.”

“I never said that.”

“You're too clever for that.” Emrys spears Arthur with a glance. “But it amounts to the same thing, doesn't it? You've already judged me and found me unfit because I come without a title.”

Emrys' initial words of praise boost Arthur's morale like a surge of adrenaline but the rest of his speech makes him flush hot with shame. “I--”

“No,” Emrys says, without letting Arthur put a word in edgewise. “I'm used to insults but I won't take that stance. It's everything I'm against.”

Arthur can see where he went wrong. He can tell what sort of mistake he made. He also experiences a stab of admiration for this man, for the way he's going head to head with Arthur in spite of Arthur having the social upper hand and all the power. But that isn't enough to quash the irritation he feels both at the role he has to play and at the way Emrys is going at him. “Take the high road by all means,” Arthur says. And though he doesn't believe Emrys would hurt Morgana, not after having talked to him, he ploughs on. “But know that it will bring along a lot of heartache.”

“Please, go,” Emrys tells him. He sounds less angry and more disappointed than Morgana had doing the same thing. “I don't want to say things I'll regret.”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur says, going to the door. “I'll get out of your hair.”

Once he hits the pavement, Arthur realises he's been kicked out of someone’s house twice in as many days.

 

[ ](http://s845.photobucket.com/user/pouletroti/media/39a8d860-3404-4a53-a7b8-85134b51b140.png.html)

*****

 

Arthur has spent all his Christmases at Sandringham bar two. The first Christmas he didn't go was when he was eight and too sick with the measles to be moved from London. The other one he missed was because he was on holiday elsewhere. Overall, the place is synonymous with the season for him.

When his car rolls into the snow-covered park and comes to a halt, he's welcomed by most of the personnel. A steward armed with a black umbrella opens the door for him.

Though only a few desultory snowflakes are drifting downwards, Arthur ducks out of the car and under the shelter of the umbrella. “Has my father arrived?” Arthur asks the steward.

“No, your Highness,” the steward says, escorting him up to the entrance. “I'm told His Majesty is in London, finishing recording the Christmas message, sir.”

“Right,” Arthur says, shoulders sloping. “Thank you.”

He takes possession of his usual rooms. The fire is already burning in the fireplace, orange tongues of flame twisting and leaping behind the grate. His suitcase is already lying on top of the bed-end chest. A cup of steaming hot chocolate is sitting on the desk by the window.

Arthur strides over, lifts the cup and takes a taste of the concoction. It's sweet, with an after taste of Cointreau. As a child he loved his chocolate like this, minus the spiking of course, and he finds he still does.

Cup in hand, Arthur walks to the window. He has a view of the drive covered in a layer of snow. Green emerges in patches here and there, washed darker by the sludge. Trees loom in the far distance, branches waving in the wind.

He's about to drop the heavy brocaded curtain and step back, when he sees a battered white car drive up the lane. Arthur blinks. Before he has connected vehicle to owner, Morgana and Emrys have emerged from it.

“Of course,” Arthur mutters to himself. “Of course she'd have done it.”

A staffer comes rushing out with an umbrella. He opens it so it's sheltering Morgana only. Emrys falls behind and with a shrug pulls on the hood of his jumper. He then circles the car, making for the boot. Morgana turns around, says something to the staffer and jogs back to Emrys, taking a canvas bag from him. Emrys shoulders a rucksack, nods his head. Together, he and Morgana dash inside.

The staffer is left behind, holding his umbrella forlornly.

Lips pressed, Arthur steps back from the window.

“I need a shower,” Arthur says, stretching so as to work out the tension kinks in his back and neck.

He's fresh from it, hair still damp at neck and temples, when there's a knock on his door. Arthur tightens the knot holding the towel wrapped around his waist in place and says, “Come in.”

Leon pokes his head in, gives Arthur a once over, and dips his head. “I can come back later.”

“No need.” Arthur rubs his hair dry with the towel he'd had wrapped around his neck. “Was there anything you wanted to tell me?”

“As a matter of fact--” Leon sidles inside and closes the door behind him “--I just had a call from His Majesty's personal secretary and he told me the King isn't going to make it to Sandringham this year.”

“What!” Arthur starts forward. “That's unheard of. The King always spends his Christmases at Sandringham!”

“He's already issued an official statement saying he's going to stay in London for health reasons.”

Arthur goes cold from head to foot, as if icy sheets have wrapped themselves around his body. “Is my father not well?”

Leon holds a palm up and says, “No, sir. That's not what I meant.”

“My father is well?” Arthur asks, the chill in his bones lifting.

“His Majesty is perfectly all right,” Leon says, before casting his eyes down. “The health reasons thing is...” He hesitates on the choice of words. “...a PR manoeuvre.”

Arthur's understanding might be clouded by the onrush of worry that had taken him over a moment before, but he still fails to get it. “A PR manoeuvre? Over Christmas?”

“Not over Christmas exactly,” Leon says, with an embarrassed look.

“Oh,” Arthur says as realisation hits him. “That's why.”

Leon raises both shoulders up to ear level. “I'm afraid so.”

Arthur's jaw clenches tightly. He only stops when his teeth grind painfully together. He doesn't know who his irritation is aimed at. And he doesn't want to inspect the feeling too closely. But it's there and doesn't dissolve, not even when Arthur tells himself to get a grip.

It persists when he meets Morgana and Emrys over dinner. With his father still in London, it's just the three of them. No one takes the seat at the head of the table, though Morgana goads Arthur to. He elects to sit in the first chair to its right while Morgana gets the one opposite his. Emrys slides in next to her, his head down, his hands under the table.

As the serving staff waltzes in with the trays, Morgana says, “So, Arthur, any comment about our Father's absence?”

Arthur has quite a few opinions on that subject, but none of them are ones he wishes to air to Morgana.

As wine is poured into his glass, Arthur answers, “Why, Happy almost Christmas, Morgana.” He smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand and widens his eyes. “Oh I forgot, this year you've set out to undermine the holidays.”

Morgana covers her glass with her palm, indicating it shouldn't be filled with wine like Arthur's was. “And how would I have done that?”

With the staff present, Arthur can't say it in so many words, but he does hint at it. “Oh, please, you were trying so hard to make it impossible for father.”

“No, you'll have to spell it out,” Morgana says, pursing her mouth. “You'll have to tell me what it is that I've done so wrong.”

Soup is ladled into their dishes; as soon as this is done the footmen dance away from the table.

“You know very well what,” Arthur says.

The rest of the meal goes on in near silence. Morgana uses her silverware like they’re weapons she's wielding. Emrys doesn't eat much at all. After a couple of desultory bites, he just gives up the pretence. Emrys' behaviour influences Arthur's own appetite. By the end of the meal, he's hardly touched anything himself and the staff takes away plates still chock full with food.

Breaking tradition, they don't have end-of-meal drinks.

Discarding her napkin, Morgana stands. “I'll be up in my room.” She smiles and there's nothing sweet about it. “Not that you're interested of course.” She looks at Emrys. “Merlin?”

Emrys' head snaps up. “Um, yes, coming.”

Arthur feels a wash of contrition stab through him, but can't bring himself to say anything at all. He can only watch Emrys trail after Morgana.

He takes his drink in the library, alone. He slumps on the sofa, feet on the armrest. The fire is burning merrily in the fireplace; the lights have been dimmed to low. He presses his head against the pillow behind him.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticks on with a whirring sound. Arthur opens the book. It's an old copy of _The Idylls of the King_. He's had it forever but he's never read it, not past the first set with the Coming of Arthur. Someone or other of his classmates had given it to him as a joke, the double entendre somehow seeming very funny to them. It had haunted Arthur down to sixth form.

The spine cracks. Arthur flips the pages. They're a little bit stiff, somewhat yellowed. The book opens naturally three quarters in. The photo is stuck between the pages. It's still glossy as if it was as good as new, but the corners are curling inwards. In the photo Arthur's grinning widely, his arm around Lancelot. Lancelot is smiling too, though there's less elation and more bashfulness to his smile.

Arthur swipes a thumb across the length of the photo, sighs. He could do with a drink.

He doesn't know how long he's been lying there, staring at the picture, when there's a knock on the open door.

Arthur looks past the rim of the book and sees Emrys standing there.

He has his hands in his pockets and his shoulders in a slope. “I--” he says. “I've come down because I wanted to apologise.”

Arthur snaps the book shut and buries it under the pillow. “I can't see why you would want to.”

“You can't?” Emrys takes a step into the room. His hands stay firmly in his pockets. “Because I can.”

“All right,” Arthur says, putting his foot back on the floor. “Explain why.”

Emrys arches an eyebrow and saunters further into the room. “I'm wholesale ruining your Christmas and I didn't mean to.”

For a moment Arthur wants to be petty and agree with Emrys. But then he takes a breath and he leaves those words unsaid. “That's not true.”

“Your father isn't coming over because of me, because I'm here,” Emrys says, with a twist of the lips that's quite painful to witness. “It's clear that that's upset you--”

“I'm not upset.” Arthur isn't a child and his father's absence isn't going to throw him for a loop. “I'm just not.”

Emrys shifts. “Let me reformulate then. You're not happy with it.”

Arthur acknowledges that with a tight nod.

Emrys bobs his own head in return. “So you're not happy, Morgana's not happy--”

“I beg to differ,” Arthur says, his hand curling on top of his knees. “I'm sure she's ecstatic.”

“You know she's not.” Emrys looks at him from under his lashes. His gaze is penetrating, a clever light shining in its depths.

It's so arresting Arthur briefly forgets what they're supposed to be talking about. Being scanned by it is like being dragged through coals, with none of the burn of it. Arthur swallows, looks away. The act allows him to centre himself, to wade back into the conversation. “You can't tell me she did this just because.”

“You have that little faith in me, have you?” Emrys grins and somehow the grins transfers to his eyes. They sparkle, get crowded by small wrinkles. “You think there's no way she wanted to spend some time with me?”

“Look, Emrys,” Arthur says, trying to look at it as objectively as he can even though right about now that comes hard. “I'm not saying that she isn't into you. I'm just saying that this isn't new, that Morgana has always had a difficult relationship with Father. She's always tried to find ways to defy him.” Arthur pauses. He doesn't want to slag his sister off to a relative stranger, but he also needs him to see. “This is just another one of her whims. No offence to you.”

As though he means to settle in for a while, Emrys sits down on the carpet in front of him. He folds his legs under him and places his palms on his knees. “I don't think you're doing her justice.”

“You believe you know my sister better than me based on a few weeks interaction?” Arthur raises his eyebrows at him.

“No,” Merlin says, gently shaking his head. “Of course not. But you're underestimating how much she's suffering too.”

“Is she?” Arthur really has no idea. Morgana presents one facet of her and one only. It's that self-assured abrasive one that often makes Arthur's hackles stand on end. “I don't know about that.”

“Of course she is,” Emrys tells him. “She's being rejected by her father. All her ideas are nixed--”

“That's because she just chooses the most obnoxious crusades to go on.”

“You really think that environmentalism, class equality and LGBTQ rights are obnoxious crusades?” Merlin asks.

“Of course not.” Emrys is misreading him. “But these aren't her causes. They're yours.”

“You're selling your sister short,” Emrys says, hugging his knees and raising his shoulders. “Why do you think she's that different from you? Why do you think your father's attitude isn't impacting her as it is you?”

“It's not impacting me.” Arthur presses his lips together.

Merlin doesn't say anything, just bathes him in his understanding gaze. It's soft and amused both and it does something to Arthur's bones Arthur had rather not investigate.

“Okay, let's admit Morgana has a shit way of showing her feelings.” Arthur engages Emrys’s gaze and, in a way, this feels like an act that requires some kind of bravery from him. “That doesn't mean she's making things easy.”

“You're changing the subject,” Emrys says, his expression softening in a way Arthur doesn't want it to because it's a stand in for pity. “You're making it about her when it's also about you.”

Arthur's eyes flare. “That's not true.”

“You can admit to having feelings, you know.” Emrys cocks his head in a study of Arthur. “There's nothing wrong about it.”

“I'm not doing whatever you think I'm doing!” Arthur wants to push to his feet. He wants to put a stop to this conversation. Never hear anymore of Emrys' psychobabble. But that would be cowardly so he stays put. “That's just not it.”

Merlin rubs his knees with his palms. “Okay, all right. You're not. But in case you were.” He looks slyly at Arthur. “I'm just saying that letting Morgana know you're in the same boat will probably get her on your side.”

Arthur's never thought that Morgana wasn't, but over the years they've slowly but surely drifted apart. Talking to her these days is more akin to open battle than not. “I've always stood by her.”

“I never doubted that for a moment,” Emrys says, and with that he picks himself up. “Well, I'll call it a night.”

Before Emrys is out the door, Arthur says, “You shouldn't have, you know.”

Merlin stiffens. “I shouldn't have what?”

“Apologised,” Arthur says, before Emrys can misunderstand. “My father was rude; you shouldn't have apologised.”

“It goes beyond that.” The answer is cryptic and Arthur is too tired to analyse it. “But thank you all the same.”

“You're welcome.”

“Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, Merlin.”

 

**** 

 

Arthur wakes on crisp white sheets and under a layer of cosy warm blankets. He yawns. He hasn't slept well, but he has no idea why.

He might try and snooze on but he knows that won't make him feel better. With a grunt, he tosses off the covers and swings his feet on the floor. With the fire banked, the room is cold. Arthur pushes to his feet and shivers. On his way to the en-suite bathroom, he passes the window. It's just a shadow in his peripheral vision, but it makes him stop.

“The idiot,” he says, after he's properly parted the curtains and seen the car idling in the drive. “You're a stubborn, stubborn idiot.”

Arthur has the quickest shower he can remember ever indulging in and dresses with no eye to what he's putting on. Before long he's on the drive, stamping over to Merlin, who's securing the boot of his car shut.

“You're doing a bunk,” Arthur says, catching up with Merlin.

Merlin lowers his head, toes the gravel at his feet. “I thought that if I left, your father would perhaps make an appearance.”

“My father is being uncivil,” Arthur says, his cheek muscles tightening. “You don't need to go away so he can do the right thing. He should do it irrespectively.”

Merlin squints against the sun, smiles and huffs. “Yeah. But it's your dad. Morgana's dad. You both deserve to have him here.”

Arthur's heart grows a size bigger at that. He wants to shake his head, tell Merlin he's an idiot but then again he can't quite because he understands where he's coming from. “Does Morgana know?”

“Do you really think I'd have run away in the dead of night--”

“It's early morning,” Arthur points out just to get that outraged little sigh out of Merlin.

“It was a figure of speech.” Merlin rolls his eyes and they somehow twinkle. “Anyway I'd never have gone without telling her.”

“No, of course not.” Arthur massages his nape. He looks up. “Don't go.”

“I thought I explained that one fairly well.”

“Yes, you did.” Arthur nods. “But I didn't mean indefinitely.”

“Then what do you mean?” Merlin asks, with a curious light glittering in his eyes.

Arthur almost wants to keep up the mystery, if only to see Merlin's reaction, but he fears Merlin will just drive off if he perseveres with the secrecy. So he says, “I feel like we as a family have been less than polite to you.”

Merlin taps his lip. “Morgana was nice.”

“All right, all right.” Arthur cleaves the air with his hands. “My father and I were less than polite.”

“That visit you paid me at mine?” Merlin says. “That was rude.”

“That wasn't my best moment.” Arthur releases a breath from between his lips and lets his shoulders droop. “And that's why I can't let you go like this.” He squares his shoulders before making the offer. “Why don't you let me make up for that? Why don't you come shooting with me?”

“I'm not killing animals.” Merlin loses his smile and his face takes on a horrified cast.

“I don't mean that!” Arthur isn't so stupid as to have. He's got an inkling of the ideals Merlin subscribes to, the campaigns he's taken part in. “I meant skeet shooting.”

“Isn't it dangerous?” Merlin goes a shade pale.

Arthur laughs. The laughter bubbles under his skin and in his chest. “No. I've been doing it since I could hardly walk.”

“That doesn't comfort me at all,” Merlin says, the corners of his mouth stretching feebly upwards. “And doesn't make me think too well of your father.”

“Why?” Arthur crosses his arms, making his muscles bulge on purpose. “What's wrong with skeet shooting?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” Merlin's brow creases. “It's just not something I'd let children do.”

“You've got to teach them the basics early, Merlin, or they'll never get it right.” Arthur makes big eyes and Merlin laughs. “So are you coming?”

“Yes,” Merlin tells him, laughing. “Yes.”

With some help from palace personnel, they set up a position, one that's far away from both public paths and the house. Once they've got everything ready, Arthur dismisses the valets. Trees loom behind them, their bark dark and shiny from the rain that has fallen overnight. In front of them lies open ground. The soil is soggy and smells like freshly-washed pine.

Merlin's canvas shoes sink deep into it and he grimaces. “I'll have to get new shoes.”

“I'll lend you a pair for your drive home,” Arthur says, lifting the skeet gun. “Now stop complaining about your shoes. I want you to pay attention.”

Merlin looks at the gun with some apprehension. “Attention, right. I wouldn't want to shoot myself in the foot.”

“You won't.” Arthur chuckles at Merlin's paranoia. “What you'll have to do is hit the target.”

“That sounds easier said than done.”

Arthur claps Merlin on the back. “Even a kid can do this. Come on, Merlin, dare a little.”

Merlin's eyebrows travel towards his hairline but he does vow to try. Arthur explains to him what the activity entails. He tells him about how the traps release their clay targets and expands upon target flight patterns. Merlin continues to appear dubious, so Arthur tells him they can try some practice shots first.

Arthur gets four targets in a row. Merlin, though, isn't quite as lucky. He gets none.

“Er,” Merlin says, shifting from side to side, “I don't think this is the sport for me.”

“No, that's unheard of.” Arthur's shot skeets with all sorts of people, school mates, ambassadors, sultans and foreign princes. None has failed to pick up the right technique. “You're just not concentrating hard enough.”

“I am,” Merlin says, outrage written in his widening eyes. “I have my eyes on those bloody skeets all the time and then nothing happens.”

“That's because your stance is all wrong,” Arthur says, putting his gun down and placing himself behind Merlin. “That's why you can't shoot properly.”

Head ducked, Merlin laughs. “And that's not because I haven't done it before?”

“No.” Arthur puts both hands on Merlin's shoulders. There's muscle there, though the bone's sharp and pointy underneath. “It's because you're holding yourself all wrong.”

“I'm holding myself the way I always do,” Merlin tells him, craning his neck to see what Arthur's doing.

“You must always track the target, keep your back straight and--” Arthur slips a foot between Merlin's. “--Spread your feet”

Merlin keeps his head down. “Is this right?”

Arthur studies Merlin's form. He looks a bit gauche in a gangly way, but that's him, Arthur's come to learn, and that's both somewhat endearing and not something Arthur wishes to change. Otherwise he's holding himself more or less correctly, at least as far as far skeet shooting is concerned. “Bend your knee forward,” Arthur says, pushing at the back of Merlin's with the front of his. “And place your weight on your forward foot.”

“And go all Billy Elliot on you?” Merlin asks, turning his head, the contours of what's most decidedly an I'm-taking-the-piss smile visible in profile.

“No.” Arthur doesn't even know why he's answering seriously, considering that he knows Merlin's yanking his chain. Maybe it's because he wants to be the straight man to Merlin's clown. “Just bring the gun to your shoulder and keep it tight in.”

“I feel like a bit of an idiot,” Merlin says, as he wields the gun like it's some sort of overgrown turnip.

“You just need to practice your swing.”

“My swing?”

Arthur supposes he must explain that one as well. “Try tracking your shots with the safety on so you can build up muscle memory.” Arthur dances from foot to foot like an idiot, mimicking the actions that Merlin will have to pull off. “Once you've gotten your swing loose, it's a go.”

Merlin flashes him a wide grin. “We're still talking about dancing, aren't we!”

“Shut up and swing,” Arthur says, though he sounds, and probably looks, way less stern than he meant to.

Merlin practices his swing a few more times. When Arthur's fairly confident he understands the move, Arthur starts the trap again. The skeet flies in a high arc across the close horizon. Tracking the movement, Merlin swings his gun. The skeet shatters and pieces of it fall to the ground.

Jumping up and down with a happy smile on his face, Merlin whirls round, gun in hand.

To avoid being muzzled in the face, Arthur ducks.

“Oh my God,” Merlin says, clamping his hand to his mouth. “Sorry, I didn't meant to--” Merlin takes a step towards Arthur, hand still around the gun, and a shot fires. The sound is dull; mud and grit shoot up and fountain outwards. “Oh God, God, God--” Merlin pales. “I swear I didn't mean to... Are you all right?” He drops the gun and pats Arthur's shoulders and chest, looking for injury. “Oh my God how do you feel?”

As Merlin's hands trace his upper body, Arthur feels hot about the face and more than a little unable to focus on the answer he should supply. “Fine! I'm fine. You shot at the ground.”

“Yes, but--” Merlin's hands move feverishly down his ribcage. “You could have been hit by a piece of shrapnel.”

Arthur chuckles. “Merlin, the cartridges are plastic and this isn't World War I.” Arthur grabs Merlin's hands with his and that's an even worse idea than letting Merlin run his strangely graceful hands all over him. Arthur's throat closes with a little spasm and all his thoughts scatter. Eventually, he blurts out, “This just means I'll need to teach you gun safety in the future.”

“If you're sure you're fine,” Merlin says, and he's studying Arthur's face closely as if he's looking for the clue that will tell him Arthur is lying.

“Of course I am--” Arthur takes a breath, looks down, lets go of Merlin's hands. “I'd know if I wasn't, don't you think?”

Merlin steps back, goes red about the face. “I'm sorry. I just got scared. I really am sorry.”

“You don't have to apologise ad infinitum,” Arthur says, adjusting the collar of his clothes even though they don't end up sitting right on him. “Let's just try a few rounds and see who wins.”

They have five more by means of which they establish that Arthur is a far better shot than Merlin and that Merlin's aim is very touch and go. When Arthur calls it a day, Merlin says it's unfair because Arthur's had years of posh training at the sport. Arthur tells him they'll have to have a rematch sometime soon and that that will prove he's an uncontested champion. 

Since Arthur dismissed the staff, they have to walk to get back to the house. Once they're half a mile deep into the woods, Merlin says, “You sure you know where to go?”

“I've spent 26 of my Christmases here, not to mention countless breaks and school holidays,” Arthur says, as the soles of his shoes get sucked in the by the mud. “Of course I do.”

“We're in the middle of nowhere and left our mobiles back at the house.” Merlin glances around apprehensively. “And it's not as if that tree is different from that other tree over there. So, unless you've got some kind of x-men like mutation that allows your body to turn into a GPS navigator, I don't see how you know where to go.”

Arthur tuts. “I'll have you know that I have an excellent sense of direction.”

Merlin mumbles something that doesn't sound too complimentary, then adds. “Still in the middle of the vast unknown.”

“First, Merlin, the property might look big on paper--”

“Oh, yes, I was forgetting, anything other than extensive acreage is beneath you.”

“Ha, ha very funny.” Arthur makes a face. “Either way we're not in the middle of nowhere. There is a church and a few Tudor houses spread around here.”

“And we can't forget the Tudors, can we?” Merlin elbows him.

“I've got an idea,” Arthur says, grabbing Merlin by the arm and dragging him onto a small side path. “I'm sure you're going to like it.”

The building is a timber-framed moated manor that comes with a gatehouse, great hall and ruined chapel. There are quatrefoil wind braces on the roof and battlements circle the tops of the outer walls. The gardens from a cross section of the grounds. They're Italianate, geometrical, full of porticoes and statues, trees aligned evenly, flower beds coasting ponds. 

“This is not Sandringham,” Merlin says, when he takes in the construction.

Arthur says, “Well, duh.”

“No, really,” Merlin says, stopping in his tracks. “Where are we going?”

“Visiting a tenant,” Arthur says.

Merlin stares. “A tenant.”

“A friendly neighbour,” Arthur says, tugging Merlin onwards. “Come on, it'll be great.”

Mrs Danbrann is clearly surprised to see him though she invites him in with a friendly smile and warm words. “It's been so long,” she adds as she escorts them across a stone flagged hall. “It's such a pleasure to see you, Arthur.”

Merlin cocks his head at Arthur, his gaze questioning.

“It's a pleasure to me too, Mrs Danbrann,” Arthur says, following the lady in question into the drawing room, where a fire burns merrily. “I've missed this place.”

“I'm sure that with all your duties you're too busy to visit,” she says, motioning them to seat. “But I do look back fondly.”

Merlin and Mrs Danbrann remain standing while Arthur seats himself. Noticing this, Arthur wags his eyebrows at Merlin. At that Merlin flings himself down, which is when Mrs Danbrann finds it appropriate to find a seat for herself.

“You must know,” she says, addressing Merlin, “that His Highness came visiting quite often when he was younger.”

Merlin looks at Arthur. “You did?”

Arthur clears his throat. “Well, when I was a school kid and free for the winter holidays, I'd make calls all the time.”

“And very welcome you were.”

Arthur reddens.

When Merlin notices this, he engages Arthur's gaze and smiles as though he approves. It shouldn't warm Arthur – it's quite embarrassing actually – but it does. “Thank you, Mrs Danbrann.”

“And how's your dear friend?” Mrs Danbrann asks. “The one who used to tag along with you?”

Arthur doesn't want to think about that. He's considered the question enough, let it burrow under his skin until it's festered. Still he can't avoid answering without outright offending Mrs Danbrann. “I wager he's fine. Back in France anyway.”

“He was such a dear,” Mrs Danbrann says, clasping her hands in her lap. “He loved Hemsby Hall so much.”

Arthur tilts his head in agreement. “He has a love for architecture, or at least had it.” Lancelot and he don't talk much nowadays, if at all. A passing email, holiday well wishes, that kind of thing. Arthur's not sure he knows him anymore. “I think my friend Merlin here might share his interest in Tudor houses.”

Mrs Danbrann shows them around the old hall. She takes them up the grand staircase. It's dark walnut with carved banisters and steps fashioned into a spiralling newel form. From there, Mrs Danbrann takes them to the library. It's covered in floor to ceiling bookcases that are crowded with heavy tomes. Large mahogany tables stand in view of the windows overlooking the park. The air smells like parchment, like the past.

They conclude tour with a visit to one of the guest bedrooms, where, Mrs Danbrann vows, Thomas Cromwell once slept.

Lastly, before setting off, they have tea and scones and little sandwiches steeped in butter. Merlin is ravenous and eats three of the former and two of the latter ‘til his fingers are sticky and he's got crumbs at the sides of his mouth. He does it so unselfconsciously Arthur can't help but smile at his antics. They don't even offend Mrs Danbrann, who's usually a stickler for form.

They burn the impromptu meal off by walking back to Sandringham. By the time they make it back, they find Morgana on the stairs. She's wearing ripped jeans and a soft looking wrap she's tugging into shapelessness with her thumbs. When she sees them tramp back up the drive, Merlin with his muddy shoes, Arthur carrying both shotguns, she smiles wide. “So Arthur,” she says, “you took Merlin shooting, I see.”

“Yes, and he's a menace,” Arthur says.

“I'm sure he can improve.”

Though Merlin calls her a traitor and continues protesting he wasn't that bad, Morgana doesn't stop beaming at them. Goaded by this, Arthur ribs Merlin some more. Merlin, for his part, repays him with the same coin.

When they've exhausted all the possible sources for teasing, Arthur and Morgana help Merlin into the car. Telling Merlin to wait for him before he drives off, Arthur steals back inside. He comes jogging back down with a shoe box in hand.

“What's that?” Merlin asks, winding the window down.

“Shoes,” Arthur says. “So you don't squirt mud all over the pedals.”

“I can't.” Merlin puckers his nose. “It's too much.”

“You'll give them back.” Arthur hands Merlin the box through the window. “I won't have you drive the car into a ditch because you had muddy shoes. What would people think?”

“Git,” Merlin says, but he accepts the shoes, changing into them before starting the car.

As the old battered vehicle inches into motion, Arthur and Morgana both wave Merlin goodbye.

Before the car's disappeared down the drive, Morgana says, “Want to come for a walk with me?”

Arthur bumps shoulders with Morgana and says, “Yes why not.”

 

***** 

 

**Merlin Emrys Wins Princess Morgana's Heart but Alienates the King**

The Princess Royal is rumoured to be feuding with King Uther III. According to Insiders, Her Royal Highness Princess Morgana, 20, is in conflict with 56-year-old King Uther over her choice of paramours. The source of the conflict, insiders have it, can be traced back to Princess Morgana inviting her fiancé, Merlin Emrys, 21, to spend the Christmas break with her at Sandringham. Friends of the couple say that Princess Morgana was keen to introduce Emrys into the fold of the family. In fact, Royal observers maintain that the Princess has a spring marriage in her sights and that this was a pre-emptive move to get her family used to the presence of her future husband in their midst.

The monarch, however, isn't very happy with the state of affairs and has vetoed the relationship. One clear hint of this was the King's absence from Sandringham – the traditional monarchy holiday spot – during the days leading up to Christmas. King Uther only returned once Mr Emrys was conveniently sighted back in his Welsh home town.

In spite of the private strife, the Royal family stuck to protocol by attending mass on the 25th. Members of the Royal group, including King Uther, Prince Arthur, and Princess Morgana, were present for the duration of 11 o'clock Christmas service at the local church. While his offspring smiled amicably for the cameras, the Monarch appeared thunderous.

Local church goer Aileen Mulder, 62, from the village of Yaxham, said that Prince Arthur appeared to be in a good mood. He joked about his own terrible singing during the church service and about knowing that the locals only hoped he'd shut up. Meanwhile, his sister Princess Morgana ribbed him about his lack of vocal prowess.  
No comments as to Mr Emrys and his absence were supplied. Geraint Elliot, the Communications Secretary to the King and spokesman for Princess Morgana, maintains that all rumours concerning impending nuptials are rubbish.

_“It is completely untrue. Absolutely wrong. Her Royal Highness and Mr Emrys are not engaged nor will they likely ever be. Talk of an engagement, let alone a wedding, is absolutely preposterous.”_

When further pressed, Mr Elliot added, “ _We have no interest in lying. This story is not only pure speculation but it is fake.”_

While the Prince and Princess, and to a certain extent the King, are putting on a happy face for public events, friends of the family insist that father and daughter have been privately feuding. Allegedly, grounds for squabbling have multiplied since HRH Princess Morgana met Mr Emrys.

“He,” one such friend says, referring to the King, “feels very embarrassed by Morgana's choice of partner and by her rebellious, indecorous attitude.” This insider also claims that the King's patience is unravelling fast. His Majesty has started to pick on everything the Princess does, from her clothing choices, to the causes she adopts, to her spending habits. “He feels she still acts like a testy teenager,” adds the source. “And with Princess Morgana being who she is, it won't be long before she fully rebels.”

While previous arguments have so far only taken place behind palace doors, it's clear signs of strife will soon become manifest to the public too. What will happen then is matter for speculation.

Will Princess Morgana bring things to a head and choose a commoner for a fiancé or will Mr Emrys find himself kicked to the curb in favour of a more eligible suitor?

While the British public waits for developments, the royal household refuses to confirm or deny reports of family unpleasantness. Will Britain have its first commoner consort or will the monarchy close ranks?

Royal experts say the matter is controversial. On the one hand, times have changed and the public is ready to celebrate a man of lower class making it to the top. This is seen as more and more acceptable given that nowadays the monarchy only has a ceremonial function. With the legislative and political decision making lying with the Prime Minister and the Parliament, the public doesn't need to look with apprehension on royal marriages. We don't depend on them for foreign alliances or to safeguard policies.

On the other hand, the Royal Family must set a good example and breaking with tradition may not be seen as such.

In the long run all we can do, they opine, is wait and see.

 

*****

 

With the rival teams lined up at mid-field, the umpire throws the ball. In a cacophony of hooves, Gwaine takes possession of it and runs with it, forcing the opposing team's hand. In anticipation of a shot coming his way, Arthur reins his pony towards Gwaine. Sagramore is the one to hit off, but Arthur is the one who brings the ball down the field. When two members of the rival team go for him, Arthur swings down at the ball, striking it smoothly so as to pass it to Lamorak. 

Following the line of the ball, Lamorak rides the opposing team-member off and bumps him, leaving him and his mount behind. When Arthur sees that, he converges on them. Aglovale is too far off to carry on for Lamorak, so Arthur spurs his pony on, leans down and hooks his opponent's mallet, stealing the ball. Heart racing fast, he urges his mount on and, leaning down, zeroes in on the ball.

It's going to be a hard move to pull off because the ball is at the bottom of the swing. In order to get it to open up, Arthur will have to hit later and at a distance from the horse, widening the angle for the mallet. He counts the beats in his head, gives a sharp tug to the reins, and crouches in the saddle, going for an open shot.

He puts the ball between the posts.

The crowd in the stands cheers, and Arthur holds his mallet up to testify to his scoring. He grins, the corners of his lips stretching involuntarily. He can't celebrate for long though, because they have to switch sides for the new throw in.

After the first goal, the team's confidence goes up. With a good rush, Lamorak carries the ball down and Gwaine scores. Their rivals show good play too, effecting a few clever manoeuvres and carving themselves room for a goal of their own. However, the chukker ends with Arthur's team in the lead.

With half time coming, all the players troop off to change ponies, making for the area behind the back line, where the grooms are warming up their mounts.

By the sidelines, George hands Arthur a water bottle while Arthur hands him his mallet and whip. Arthur drains half the bottle in one go. When he's finished, he dabs at the sides of his mouth with his forearm. George bins the used bottle and passes him a towel, which Arthur uses to mop at the back of his neck. As for the shirt that's sticking to him like a second skin at pectorals and back, there's no changing that. When Arthur's more or less dry, George says, “Your mobile rang three times and vibrated quite a few.”

“Give it to me,” Arthur says, while he switches horses without dismounting.

When he's safe in the new saddle, Arthur thumbs at the message alert and gets to the texts themselves. They're from a number that isn't on his contacts. The content, however, makes the identity of the sender quite clear.

_I'd have returned your shoes sooner, but I didn't think they'd have let me into your private lodgings at Kensington palace. #notashoethief_

The following one says,

Since I cared about my honour as a law abiding, non-shoe-thief, Morgana thought she could contrive the perfect occasion to let me come in your general vicinity.

The third texts says:

so I'm gonna be watching a sport I know nothing about, hoping I can give them back to you. Btw, this is Merlin.

Arthur smiles at his phone, then snaps his head up and studies the bleachers. Behind a white canvas barrier are the benches the audience is occupying. They sun has moved behind the stands, gilding the heads of the attendees. Most of them are wearing dark glasses and pale clothes. They have champagne glasses in their hands. Among the crowd are billionaires, notable charity patrons, the wives and girlfriends of some of the players, a few TV celebrities, and some titled personages. Of Merlin and Morgana there's no trace, but the crowd is so thick there's little chance of spotting them.

With only a few minutes before the next chukker begins, Arthur texts,

_come down for divot stomping_

Arthur's phone shakes in his hand.

_Is that a bad euphemism?_

Arthur's lips curve. His fingers quickly compose the words: _ask Morgana_

_Morgana says she's not ruining her shoes. Idk what that means and what it has to do with divots. Help!!!_

Arthur shakes his head, chuckles under his breath. He writes: _it's when spectators stomp down on the turf that has been torn up by the ponies._

_Oh, messy fun activity. You should have said sooner!_

Two minutes short of the end of half time, Merlin comes find him by the sidelines.

“Wow,” he says, red in the face, his soles sticky with soil and grass, “nice horse!”

“It's a pony,” Arthur says, drawing on the reins so it won't pace sideways. “Hasn't Morgana told you we use ponies?”

Merlin shields his eyes as he talks to him. “No actually, she said this was the most boring sport in the history of creation. She just got me here so I could hand you your shoes back.” He holds a transparent bag aloft. “See.”

Arthur tips his head in George's direction; George steps forward.

Saying “oh”, Merlin surrenders the package in his hands.

Arthur says, “And what do you think?”

“Uh?” Merlin makes a face that doesn't make him look particularly smart.

“Of the game,” Arthur says, leaning forward to pat his pony's mane. “What do you think of polo?”

Merlin shows him his soles. “I enjoy divot stomping. It's quite liberating.”

Arthur can't hold in a chuckle, which is still ringing out when Gwaine calls out to him, “Hey, Arthur, throw-in is in a minute.”

Arthur roams his gaze to the area behind Merlin. The audience is retreating back to the stands in slow moving droves, wearing, much like Merlin, decidedly dirtier shoes than before. “It seems duty calls me,” he tells Merlin, spurring his pony past him. “Will you watch the rest of the match?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, pivoting so he can keep Arthur in his sights. “Yeah, why not.”

Arthur winks. “See you later then, Merlin.”

At the start of the fourth chukker, the umpire tosses the ball in between the two teams as they line up parallel to one another. Sticks crack, stirrups chink, and a thunderstorm of hooves hits the dry ground as everyone careens towards their goal.

Arthur knows this is going to be a tough second half because the rival team starts it dead bent on harassing Arthur's own. The rival team's number four in particular seems less intent on scoring himself than on stopping Arthur from doing so.

Time and again Arthur finds himself forced off the ball by way of well-aimed interference tactics or elbows into ribs. Over the two succeeding chukkers Arthur only finds a few rare openings. Mostly, however, the opposing team throws back ball after ball such an incredibly long way that they keep falling within ten yards of the goal area.

This is not how Arthur's team is meant to play. Merlin will think them a bunch of morons and get the wrong idea of the sport entirely. Arthur won't have that. That's not how you initiate the uninitiated.

During the last two chukkers Arthur has his team change strategies. It starts well. Because of the others' fouls, he gets to hit three penalties from the sixty-yard line. That rattles his adversaries, and makes them aggressive, but Arthur's on a roll. He's playing well, the way he's meant to, the way that will surely get Merlin interested in the sport.

Blocking a cut-shot from the rival number three, Arthur takes the ball back up-field, changing course more than once to outwit the opposition. As he thunders towards the goal line, he locates Gwaine. Passing the ball to him would be obvious. So much so, the rival team must be aware. Arthur scans his other side. Lamorak is close by. So Arthur flicks him an under-the-neck shot and then spurs his pony forwards. Even as he gallops forward, he keeps his neck craned. He makes a hand sign to Lamorak. That has Lamorak mouth the words, “You sure?”

And Arthur is. True, there's no reason why Lamorak couldn't finish the action off, but Arthur's the best shot in the team and he wants this. He wants for Merlin in particular, who's new at this, to see him excel. So he mimes back, “Yes.”

Lamorak passes him the ball with a glib near-side forehand. Arthur intercepts it and slams it between the post. With only two minutes left of play, that gives his team the advantage, which they retain ‘til game's end. They've won. He's scored a decisive point. Merlin's seen that too. It's all good.

The team celebrates the victory by prancing their horses round and round the field. More victory rituals take place in the changing rooms in the shape of pats on the back, hair ruffles and slaps on the buttocks.

Changed into a fresh uniform, Arthur makes to leave the lockers, when Gwaine calls out, “Hey, where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Morgana's in the stands. I wanted to go and say hi,” Arthur says.

Gwaine comes up to him and studies him, hands on hips. “Your hair's still wet.”

“Since when does my hair matter?” Arthur asks, patting his down.

“Well, if you want to know, I've known you were a vain git since I caught you checking your reflection in a silver dish during the Vice-Chancellor’s Oration back in uni,” Gwaine says, waggling his eyebrows. “But never after polo. So what gives?”

“Nothing gives.” Arthur blows hair off his brow. “And I'm not vain.”

“Of course you're not,” Gwaine says. “You're just a stickler for aesthetics.”

“Bugger off, Gwaine.” Arthur turns around, hoping to make the exit this time.

In a clop of boots, Gwaine comes after him. “Wait, wait, wait.”

“What for?” Arthur gives Gwaine a cutting stare.

“Me.” Gwaine slips his hands in the pockets of his white trousers and gives him a light shrug. “You said Morgana's there.”

Arthur takes the corridor leading back to the patio, where the refreshments are usually laid out. “Don't you read the papers? She has a boyfriend now.”

“Oh yes, I masturbate daily to the contents of The Mirror,” Gwaine says, jogging to catch up with Arthur. “Besides, even if she has, does it matter?”

Arthur stops in his tracks. “What?”

“Nothing,” Gwaine says, giving him a slap on the back that propels Arthur forward. “Nothing.”

Oval tables decked in white fill the patio overlooking the field. At the centre of each is a flower arrangement while to their side champagne coolers perch on top of stands. Around them sit women smothered in jewels and dainty hats and men wearing rolled up in jackets and tweed trousers.

Morgana and Merlin are occupying a table close to the back garden. Arthur makes for it, Gwaine in tow.

“Morgana,” Arthur says, kissing her cheek. He turns to Merlin and says, “I saw you before, so hi again.”

After he's introduced Gwaine to Merlin, Morgana shoots up and, quite out of the blue, declares that she's got to go.

“What, you're not even staying for the charity luncheon?” Arthur swings his hands outwards to indicate the venue.

“No, I can donate in less conspicuous ways,” she says, shouldering her handbag. “Besides I've got to see Morgause. She's in London for the week, and I can't miss the opportunity to hang out.”

Merlin nearly pushes himself out of his chair.

Morgana pushes him back down. “You should lunch with Arthur. Meals here are a sensual experience.”

As Merlin blushes, Arthur says, “Morgana!” but he doesn't even know what he's protesting against. Merlin's been foisted upon him, sure, but it's not as if Arthur's brimming over with distaste at the idea. Because he is the Prince of Wales and his presence would induce other club members to donate, he must stay either way and Merlin's not going to be a horrid meal companion. It's just that he doesn't know how Morgana can flit in and out of their days with such little thought. “That's not very nice.”

“Merlin knows,” she says, winking at him while she squeezes his shoulder. “And I'm sure you could use the chance to get to know each other better. Merlin's been praising you ever since Sandringham.”

“I haven't,” Merlin says, making big eyes at both Arthur and Morgana. “Not that I've been bad-mouthing you to your sister, I just--”

“Well, you'll have to settle that by yourselves.” Morgana grabs Merlin's chin and kisses him on the lips while Arthur studiously looks away. “I've got to hurry.”

She disappears into a flurry of guests.

“It's us three, then,” Gwaine says, sprawling in the chair opposite Merlin's.

“I can go if...” Merlin points with his thumb at the space behind him.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Arthur says, levering himself into the seat opposite Merlin's. “You're lunching with us.”

Merlin goes stiff in his chair, his hands on his knees. His eyes widen and roam the patio, tracking the toing and froing of the guests. He jiggles his leg and taps his foot, looking so much like a fish out of water Arthur's heart rises up inside him. He asks, “so how's uni been?”

“Um, fine,” Merlin says, resettling in his chair so he's practically slid onto its edge. “I'm writing my thesis. It's going... My supervisor says the last chapter I gave him is good but the writing needs to be tighter.”

When a waitress passes by, white apron on a black uniform, Gwaine taps the side of a flute and gestures for a drink.

Arthur refrains from rolling his eyes and instead asks Merlin, “So what's this thesis of yours about?”

Merlin's eyes brighten. “It's about Rousseau, Plato and the concept of civil religion.”

Somehow that sounds like Merlin. “Of course.” Arthur's smiles.

Merlin goes on with some enthusiasm, “It's about the points of contact and the differences between their perspectives.” Merlin starts using his hands to illustrate the concept. “So now Rousseau discusses how institutions contribute to the preservation of regimes, right? Because when citizens deviate from rules, the regime is under threat and that's what religion does, helps contain the threat.” 

“That's in the Social Contract, right?” Arthur says.

Merlin's eyes widen and he flashes Arthur a wide smile. “Yes, yes it's from there. Well guessed. Didn't you do Geography in uni? How--”

Arthur says, “The perks of a good education.”

Merlin shakes his head, smiles at him. “Of course. I forgot who I was talking to.”

Now that he's got the conversation going and that Merlin's back has gone from ramrod straight to relaxed, Arthur's not about to let go of the one topic that seems to have put Merlin at ease. “So this is the social contract as opposed to?”

“Plato's idea of civil religion as a means of strengthening the legislative body as presented in _The Laws_.”

Gwaine snorts, levers himself out of his seat and says, “I see Elena over there. I'll go say hi.”

Merlin and Arthur have a lunch of lobster, canapés and champagne. Merlin eyes the silverware with distrust, gives the lobster a pass, and only eats the canapés, picking them up with uneasy fingers and watching Arthur for cues before actually biting. To draw him out and stop him from getting stiff all over again, Arthur asks him about what he's been doing since Christmas. Merlin tells him that he spent the New Year with uni mates and that ever since, he's been concentrating on his dissertation.

The conversation is flowing so well, Arthur almost wants to chase off the charity employee who stops by their table, silver bucket in hand. “Donations?”

Merlin's eyes flare and he stares at the contents of the bucket, where a sea of fifty pound notes lies in various stages of being crumpled.

Arthur slips the cheque he'd prepared from out of his pocket and deposits it in the bucket. “It covers the both of us.”

“On behalf of CRY, we thank you, your Highness.”

Merlin ducks his head, says a hoarse thank you. After that, they finish their luncheon quickly, mostly because they don't talk. Merlin in fact frowns into his plate, red in the face.

Arthur needs to salvage this, or the whole meal will have been an utter disaster.

Pointing out how scenic it is, Arthur suggests they take a stroll down the stream. When Arthur starts going on about the topography of an ordinary polo club, Merlin's lips twitch, relax. He huffs and shakes his head and mutters about posh people and their posh pet subjects. Even as he does this, his face gets scored with laughter lines. A definite win for Arthur.

The ground is soft and the grass is green, water bubbling in the background. With the Polo Club members still intent on the lunch, the path is mostly empty. Arthur walks by the margins of the stream where the soil is compact. Merlin matches his pace to his and, hands in his pockets, advances by his side.

When they come upon a fence, they climb over it so they can walk the path down to its end. Arthur doesn't tell Merlin they're outside the bounds of the club but he doesn't think Merlin will either object or care. Maybe he'll actually like it better here, away from all the socialites. They're close to a sparse thicket where the greenery is brushed with the browns of winter, when Merlin tells him, “I'm sorry.”

“About what?” Arthur asks.

“Barging in on your day.”

Arthur turns around so he's walking backwards. “You didn't. You just joined in for the fun.”

Merlin ignores him. “I only wanted to get you your shoes back and get to know you a bit and Morgana said coming here'd be a good idea.”

Arthur smiles. “Morgana would.”

“I'm sorry.”

“There's really nothing to be sorry for,” Arthur says, pivoting so he can once more see where he's going. “Unless you had an awful time today.”

“When Morgana said she'd take me--” Merlin smiles as he seems to contemplate his shoes. “--I wasn't sure how it'd be. But it wasn't horrible at all. I like the horses.”

“They're top class horses,” Arthur says, warming up to the subject. “They've had training. They're obedient and responsive. But only if they know you well and can trust you.”

“How do you get a horse to trust you?”

“Assurance, a steady hand, a knack for getting them to like you.” Arthur picks up a pebble, balances it on his palm. “If you follow certain unspoken rules, you'll see your horse turning to you for guidance. You'll know the moment, believe me.”

Merlin sniffles through his nostrils. “Not likely to. Never handled many a live horse.”

Arthur stops walking and grabs Merlin by the arm. “In which case you definitely must come and meet Llamrei.”

The stables are composed of a series of three sprawling buildings made of wood and cement. From the outside they don't look like much, but the inside is top notch in terms of animal care. Sixty large box stalls take centre floor. They have the horses' names engraved on wooden roundels hanging on doors. Llamrei is standing in her loose-box, her tack already off, hay and water buckets comfortably within her reach.

“Here she is,” Arthur says, unable not to smile at the sight of his pony being spoilt so rotten. “My princess.”

“Should I leave you two alone?” Merlin's eyebrows dance.

“Idiot.” Arthur tugs Merlin by the sleeve and when Llamrei steps forward to greet them, puts his hand on her muzzle. He keeps his on top until the expression on Merlin's face changes to a starbust of a smile. “Say hi to my princess.”

“She's warm and soft,” Merlin says, petting Llamrei, running his hand in the space between her eyes.

Llamrei flicks her ears and takes a step forwards, pushing her muzzle into Merlin's hand.

“She likes you.” Legs crossed, Arthur leans against the stall door. “Llamrei is very fastidious so you should consider this a very great honour.”

“You love horses.” Merlin caresses Llamrei's neck, his fingers tangling in her mane. “Don't you?”

Arthur thinks Merlin has a natural love for them too. It's so clear in the way he's acting, how much joy he's taking in petting Llamrei, how careful he is not to spook her. But he doesn't say that. “Ponies are noble animals.”

Llamrei neighs.

Merlin laughs. “I guess she agrees.”

Arthur touches his palm to the side of Llamrei's head. “She's more clever and sensitive than most people would think.”

“You're not the man you try to make people believe you are,” Merlin says a propos nothing, his gaze shifting from the pony to Arthur.

Arthur stiffens. He ought to question Merlin about what he means, has an inkling it's nothing positive, but finds that he can't. He doesn't want to know, is not prepared to hear the criticism that is sure to come his way, not from Merlin, not now that he's found out he doesn't dislike him. He holds himself tight, the space under his ribs cramping, as though there's less of it and breathing doesn't come easy. “I'm sorry if I--”

“No, you don't get it.” Merlin goes saucer eyed, shakes his head. “That's not what I meant. What I meant is that you try to come across one way and you're not that.”

Arthur steps back and looks sharply away.

Merlin continues on. “Oh fuck it, you'd think I'd be better at expressing myself but evidently I'm not.” He sucks in a big breath. “I just think that you've got some pretty nice character traits, but you just don't let them shine through.”

“So what am I?” Arthur asks, pinning Merlin with his gaze ‘til he squirms and Arthur finds himself wishing he could react any other way. “Am I a pampered idiot? A heartless snob? Or am I so out of touch I don't even know myself?

Merlin opens his mouth to say something, and Arthur's fairly certain it's going to be another well-meaning and long-winded elaboration of his opinion, when Gwaine cuts him short by charging into the stables and saying, “I'm driving back into London, who wants with?”

Arthur says, “I'm with but we've got to drop Merlin wherever he wants. Oh and I can't shake my bodyguard detail.”

“That's fine. They can drive behind me,” Gwaine says. “So, Merlin, is there any chance you'd rather hit a few clubs with us tonight?”

To Arthur's surprise Merlin's answer is yes. Gwaine sounds pleased and gets all pally with Merlin, making him sit in the passenger seat and asking him so many questions Arthur almost wants to tell him to cut it down. Merlin, however, seems to be game and answers with an openness Arthur hasn't witnessed in that many people. After a quick dinner at Gwaine's – one Gwaine has no hand in for it's fully catered – they go out again.

With Arthur in tow, Gwaine can't do his usual pub run prior to hitting clubs, not even with Arthur disguising himself with sunglasses and a bomber jacket. The first club they hit, a Soho venue whose entrance is advertised by nothing other than a small plaque worked into the brickwork, has a VIP room on the second floor, to which most Londoners will never be granted access. Arthur, Gwaine, and Merlin are ushered in without question and without even passing by the main floor. A special private lift does the job instead.

While Gwaine saunters off to the bar to place an order, Arthur sheds part of his disguise.

Merlin sinks into the deep seat without even taking off his jacket. His eyes linger on the glittering chandeliers, the gilt mirrors, the rich red upholstery that cushions walls and seats.

“Gwaine likes it,” Arthur says, shrugging his shoulders.

“It's a bit like him, this place,” Merlin says, sharing a smile with Arthur. “Not that I think he's gaudy but he's...”

“All over the place?” Arthur suggests. “Larger than life?”

“Yeah.” Head dipped, Merlin nods to himself. “Yeah.”

When Gwaine comes back he not only has drinks but girls in tow. They're both tall, within the six foot range, wearing simple tees and short skirts. One Arthur recognises. Her name is Blanche and she's a relative, three or four times removed. She's also someone he's been rumoured to have been dating. Naturally, that's the kind of bullshit only a few newspapers hardly worth the name would publish. The other girl is no one Arthur's acquainted with. She's certainly chummy with Blanche though. Her name, she announces, is Acke and she's Swedish.

Releasing a whiff of perfume, they slip in the booth beside Gwaine. They greet Arthur with coy ‘your Highnesses’ and to Merlin they say, “Oh, you're Commoner-Charming.”

“What?” Merlin says, shadows shading his brow.

“Commoner-Charming,” Acke explains. “That's what the Daily Mail calls you. As in Prince Charming, but, you know, without the title.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, and it's clear he's at a loss for what else to add.

Though Arthur wants to, it's Gwaine who rescues him. “So, girls, how's the world of fashion?”

“We have a photo shoot tomorrow,” says Blanche. “We must look great for it so we can't have much fun tonight.”

In spite of that they drag Gwaine on the dance floor – Arthur and Merlin pass – and when they come back, somewhat sweatier and better snogged than before, they plaster themselves either side of Merlin.

“So,” Blanche tells him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “They say you're very special.”

Acke says, “You've got to be. You turned a Princess' head.”

“Mmm,” Merlin says, making wide eyes at Arthur that are a clear plea for help. “I don't think it's actually like that.”

As Morgana's brother, Arthur should frown on this, blame Merlin. But Merlin's wide-eyed look is somehow too panicked for Arthur to be able to think he's in any way responsible for the flirtation coming his way.

Blanche covers Merlin's hand with hers. “You know Morgs wouldn't mind, don't you?”

The look of panic in Merlin's eyes grows distinctly wilder. He grabs at his drink and guzzles down half of it. Before he can finish it, Arthur says, “Let's get another.”

“Gwaine hasn't touched his yet,” Merlin says, eyes flaring with confusion.

“The girls will want their own.” He winks and he hopes it's enough to make Merlin understand.

Merlin's brow crumples and his mouth slips open.

“Drinks,” Arthur adds for good measure, cocks his head at the bar.

“Oh.”

They join the crowd at the counter. Arthur gets a few pointed looks but the people here know not to bother him. Merlin gets a few curious stares of his own, but then again with the exposure he's lately got that's not something out of this world. “This is what you were warning me about, isn't it?”

“What?” Arthur says, making a sign two at the barman.

“Nothing,” Merlin says and when the barman serves them, he grabs at one of the drinks and nearly finishes it all in one go.

Arthur ought to have said the drinks weren't for him, but what can you do. He can see where Merlin's coming from, why he's clinging to the alcohol.

By the time they make it back to the table, Merlin's ability to walk into a straight line has been put a dent to. By the time they move on to a second club, Merlin's slurring his words. And when they get to their third, Merlin takes to talking a lot, with none of what he says making much sense. If he's hit on or someone mentions the words 'Commoner Charming', he latches onto yet another drink.

Gwaine, the traitor that he is, disappears with two girls in tow and by four in the morning Merlin's eyelids are going down and he can't sit straight. In fact Merlin's leaning heavily against Arthur.

He's warm and heavy and the sensation is not unpleasant. Arthur tilts his head and looks at Merlin. He has an open face, relaxed out of the frown lines that crossed it earlier. Like this, he looks somewhat vulnerable and wholly endearing. Arthur shouldn't think that because Merlin's clearly sloshed, but that's the consideration that crosses his mind.

Arthur is trying to get Merlin to sit without listing, when Gwaine pops back by. “Arthur,” he says, a girl on his arm. “Lynette and I are going to hers.”

Arthur widens his eyes. “What am I gonna do with Merlin?”

Gwaine tosses him his keys. “Let him sleep it off at mine. He can have the water bed.”

Before Arthur can object to that, Gwaine has swirled around and made it off with Mab.

Arthur contemplates Merlin. The only reason he's not horizontal is because of the seat he's leaning against. While he's awake, he's not all there either. There's no way he's going to make it to Gwaine's alone.

Morgana is going to kill Arthur. Not only has he led Merlin a little bit astray but he's also got him in a condition that won't allow him to look after himself.

“Okay, all right,” Arthur says, wrapping an arm around Merlin's shoulders and hoisting him up. “Off we go.”

“Uh? What? Where?” Merlin says.

“We're off to sleep.”

“I was kinda sleeping,” Merlin tells him, his body heavy enough it's a fight to get him out of the booth. “I was comfy there.”

“Yes, but you can't sleep in a club booth, Merlin.” Especially not when paparazzi are likely sitting outside, waiting to testify to Merlin's debauched habits. “Come on, this way.”

With some huffing and puffing and some not inconspicuous amount of sweating, Arthur manhandles Merlin down two flights of stairs. On his way down, Merlin laughs and talks his mouth off. He comments on the décor, blabs about how much he likes the colour red. “Like bulls, though not like bulls actually. Because bulls get angry when they see red. Killing bulls for sports is wrong, don't you think?” 

At the private back-door, two bouncers offer to help Arthur with his burden, but Arthur doesn't think half-carrying Merlin that much of an effort now. The car is close by anyway and Percival and Owain are already opening the door for him.

He's trying to push a furiously prattling Merlin into the back seat, when Owain says, “We've got it, Your Highness.”

“Ah, no, thanks, I'm managing fine.”

At Gwaine's, Arthur unloads Merlin onto the bed. When he's safely on the mattress, Arthur goes to the kitchen and ransacks it for water and pain killers. He makes Merlin drink two glasses of the former and swallow at least one tablet.

Because he can't imagine Gwaine appreciating his bed having soles prints all over, he takes off Merlin's shoes. He has to smile at the colourful socks, darned at the tips. He's about to turn off the lights and go, when Merlin grabs him by the wrist. “Are you going away?”

If Father finds out Arthur's spent the entire night out without even touching base at Kensington Palace, there will be words. But there's something about Merlin's tone that makes him say, “I can stay, if you want.”

Merlin doesn't let go of his arm, but closes his eyes and lets his lip stretch into a smile.

With no other option but to stay, Arthur eyes the bed. Merlin's not sprawled across the whole length of it. Even if he had wanted to occupy a larger portion of it, he couldn't have because Gwaine's mattress is custom and as big as a landing pad. Arthur could easily lie down next to Merlin without disturbing him one bit or having their bodies touch. Even so, he opts for sleeping on the floor, a few blankets and a pillow under him.

It's early morning, light the colour of tea flooding in and Arthur's a pace away from falling asleep, when Merlin says, “I didn't know it would be quite like this.”

Arthur's mind so foggy, he's not sure he's ready to process what Merlin's said. “Pardon?”

“This kind of life,” Merlin says, in the sing song tone of the sleepy. “I know you were just trying to scare me off, but you were right. Those people were only paying attention to me because of what's in the papers.”

“How do you know they weren't fascinated by your boundless lower class charm?”

Merlin rolls flat onto his back, spreading his arms either side of him. “Ha, ha.” His mouth tenses. “You know what I mean.”

“You do have to learn to sort the chaff.” Before Merlin can misconstrue – and he's the type to – he adds, “the people who're in it for you and those are in it because of your title or, in your case, how often you've made the papers lately.”

“It's hell,” Merlin mumbles. “How do you even know?”

“You knew tonight.” Arthur watches Merlin's chest rise and fall. “You didn't drink all that alcohol because you were thirsty.”

“Yes, but--” Merlin pauses, wipes a hand along his brow. “I don't know. It's a pretty good deterrent.”

“To being with Morgana?” Arthur doesn't know how he feels about this. Putting Merlin off had been his objective from the start, his father's mandate, but now that Merlin's talking like Arthur's plan worked, he feels no triumph. “Is that what you're saying?”

“I'm not talking about my feelings,” Merlin says. “I wouldn't give up people. But the life...”

Arthur pummels the pillow he's lying on for better comfort. “I hope you don't.”

Merlin huffs, his ribcage moving with it. “I thought you wanted me as far as from your family as possible.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “I don't want that.”

Merlin stays silent and his breathing grows more rhythmic to the point Arthur thinks he's fallen asleep. “How do you cope?”

“I don't,” Arthur says, after he's given some thought to the question. “You live with it. Accept it's something you can't change.”

“That's tougher than I thought it would be.”

“Sometimes,” Arthur says, and when he does, it's with a hushed tone, as if he's sharing a secret, “well, actually most of the time, you don't know who's genuine and who's not.”

“That shouldn't happen.” Merlin sits up. His hair is standing on end and he looks utterly bleary eyed and out of it. Earnest too.

“That's life.” He looks to the ceiling.

“I wouldn't do that,” Merlin says and it's so quiet the rustle of the sheets nearly covers it. “Chase someone for who they are.”

“I know.” Morgana is a lucky one that way. “I know.”

 

***** 

 

Over the next few weeks, things don't change much. Arthur lives the same life as always, whisked from state visit to charity event to official ceremony. Morgana keeps in touch with him, but she avoids answering most questions, so that Arthur's always left confused as to where he stands with her after their Christmas truce. He's equally ignorant as to what's going on in her life. Sometimes he only learns about Morgana through the filter of the press and that's so skewed he might as well be seeking information from a compulsive liar. Father persists in asking him to deal with Merlin, but because Merlin's not disappeared into a black hole, he complains that he’s not seeing results and insists that Arthur try harder. Arthur responds to the demands as vaguely as he can. As for Merlin himself, he still features in the papers from time to time but not as often as he did when he was a new thing.

Arthur takes a leaf out of Morgana's book and wriggles his way out of commenting. He knows he won't be able to do that for long but at the moment it's the only solution that presents itself.

Something does change, however. He hears more from Merlin himself. It starts with a text.

_Saw your charity video on the telly. Smashing job._

When he receives it, Arthur smiles. With his team milling around the room, he walks to the window to have the leisure to answer in private. You're pulling my leg.

_Swear I am not. Hand on my heart._

_I'd have to see it to believe it._

Arthur's mobile keens at the incoming picture message. The photo features Merlin standing tall and rigid with his hand on his heart. Arthur writes: _Pity the earnestness factor is ruined by the shit eating grin._

Texting becomes a habit. When he's in between duties, when he's having some time to himself, when he's bored at parties full of people trying to get noticed by him, he finds an alcove and starts texting Merlin. Merlin, God bless him, is patient with that, whether the messages come at noon or at two in the morning. The reply always comes quick and it regularly includes a funny line, a wry bon mot. Merlin's humour is more effective than Arthur's publicity team's. The jokes they write him in his speeches are mostly cringe-worthy; Merlin's instead always make him gasp and huff, and yes, giggle too. Even in public.

When they're not texting, they manage to keep in touch in other ways. Sometimes it's through video calls. On a few occasions they send each other funny postcards, Arthur's from whichever end of the globe he's on when on a diplomatic tour, Merlin from Durham, though his are vintage one from university bookshops. Sometimes it's through a quick game of Hanging with Friends, a variation of Hangman Merlin seems to love a lot, probably because his sets of words are truly impossible to fathom – completely dastardly – and he knows Arthur will spend hours trying to solve them. Before falling asleep of a night, he'll lie in bed, the lights dimmed, the four poster's drapes drawn, and stare at his mobile, wondering what word could hide behind the seemingly random shuffle of letters flashing on his screen. The maid will be pouring tea in his cup of a morning and he'll still have his eye on the damned thing, buns and rolls and eggs quite forgotten for the moment.

“Isolde, have you any idea what word these letters form?” He shows her the jumbled array of vowels and consonants Merlin sent him the night before and that he couldn't decipher before falling asleep.

Her lips twist upwards and she says, “Democracy, Your Highness.”

“The cheeky bastard.”

When Arthur develops a sixth sense for the words Merlin has come up with, Merlin challenges him with a home-made quotes game, no Google allowed.

When the first quote gets to him by way of a picture text portraying a zoomed in post it note on which the words 'virtue can only flourish among equals' are scribbled, Arthur wants to cheat and resort to a search engine.

He honourably admits defeat though and folds, not without sending Merlin a quote of his own, one he's sure Merlin will never guess the originator of.

 _“My real passions are horses and playing polo. I care a lot about that and staying fit and in shape_ ,” he texts.

 _“You?”_ is Merlin's guess.

_“No. Ha, ha. That was a quote from great polo player Nacho Figueras.”_

Merlin volleys him another one. _“Some laws of state aimed at curbing crime are even more criminal.”_

 _“Ha!” Arthur texts._ “Know that one. Friedrich Engels, you Marxist.” He shakes his head at his phone and then types the words: “ _We are not interested in the possibilities of defeat. They do not exist.”_

Arthur's mobile is silent for longer than usual. Then it chimes with an incoming message. _“Queen Victoria.”_

_“You googled that.”_

_“Nope.”_ Arthur could almost picture Merlin's expression, front tooth sunk into his lower lip, face a heightened pink. “You did.”

 _“Nope.”_ Another text came in. _“Whatever is my right as a man is also the right of another.”_

Arthur grunted at his mobile. _“I have no idea.”_

 _“Thomas Paine._ ” Merlin must have written that quite quickly because the message appears in Arthur's inbox on the heels of his answer. _“I quite like the bloke. Activist, free thinker, anti-monarchist.”_

 _“Phone me.”_ Arthur texts. _“You can tell me about him live.”_

They can't always do that of course. Merlin has his obligations and Arthur his. Their timetables don't often coincide and there are times Arthur must renounce all means of communication that would get him in touch with Merlin. But little by little, and though he doesn't want to come to rely on it, Merlin becomes part of the canvas of Arthur's routine.

 

****

 

The procession of cars, more than six of them, starts at the airport and cuts through the wide streets of Beijing. Because of Arthur's visit they have been cleared of traffic and the emptiness makes the long stretch of tarmac a modern grey wasteland, with looming skyscrapers appearing taller and wider, with arches folded like the legs of giants.

Police sirens wail in the distance. Army vehicles precede his while motorcycles, flags streaming from their rears, flank his car. They pass under bridges and sail under tunnels, catching a glimpse of the ever changing skyline, which glints diamond white, pale clouds skimming past.

He doesn't step out of the car until he's given a go by his security team. Two men, both from the Close Protection Unit, walk ahead of him while Percival and Owain fall into step behind him.

A huge welcome crowd stands behind crush barriers. Some of its members have placards and streamers: some hold on to red and white balloons. Most are wielding cameras and mobiles to capture the moment, Arthur's meeting their head of state.  
Arthur strides towards the Premier.

The latter shakes his hand and says, “Welcome to China, Your Highness.”

“I'm honoured and delighted to be here.”

They hold the handshake pose for long moments, mostly for the sake of the press, and then they vault around. “We've been told about the security measures your entourage requires. I suppose you won't want to acknowledge the crowd?”

Arthur had been briefed about all the relevant dangers of big assemblies of people, but he says, “No, I'd rather shake some hands actually.”

“May I ask the reason for the schedule change?”

There's a lot Arthur means to say but he can't quite give the Premier a blow by blow of his life, the way he's come to see the people he interacts with in a somewhat altered light, how he sees no gap between himself and the next person standing over there. So he just says, “Whatever is my right as a man is also the right of another.”

“I see.” The Premier smiles and nods his head, his expression going from carefully diplomatic to genuinely pleased. It's funny in a way. Knowing the entire voyage was going to be a test of his diplomatic skills, Arthur had been a nervous wreck about it. Before making the pivotal trip, he'd spent whole mornings being lectured on etiquette, with the training sessions involving reference textbooks, white boards, and videos, and yet he seems to have had more of a breakthrough, more of a breaking of the ice, by way of a reference to a game between friends than thanks to all the formal sermonising he'd been subjected to. “Thomas Paine, a great promoter of equality.”

“Yes.” Arthur has an answering grin of his own, though it's perhaps more private and less fervently admiring of Paine's than the Premier's. “A friend's a bit of a fan.”

“You'd have rather gone with “Every subject's duty is the king's” yourself perhaps?”

“No, no Shakespearean Kings for me. I'm leaning more towards Paine these days.”

After this first meeting Arthur plunges headlong into the usual schedule of receptions, dinners, and drive-throughs that a state visit involves. The tables are long and crowded, white linen spread across them the glasses crystal, light catching off their rims. The concerts are long, the instruments finely tuned, the voices trained. The drive-throughs are brief, showing him snatches of a city that gleams with a beauty he cannot touch, of a countryside steeped in greens and ochres that pit themselves against a pale sky.

When he comes back from the latest event in a string, Arthur is bone tired. His head pounds, his body feels heavy and sluggish, and he's too full from a lush dinner to put himself to sleep. He loosens his bow tie, sheds his jacket and undoes his cummerbund.

He's pacing up and down in an attempt to work off the day's baggage, when the Skype ring tone sounds.

Arthur goes to his desk and touches the screen of his computer, waking it.

The green icon is active and a photo of Merlin -- sprawling on some sort of green with the sun behind him – occupies half of the screen. Arthur touches his finger to it.

“Hey, Merlin,” Arthur says, smiling as Merlin's face comes into view. His hair is tousled, and there's two dark gouges under his eyes. “I wasn't expecting your call.”

Merlin grins, looking down and sideways, into the camera. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did,” Arthur says. “But you look as if you could use some more sleep. What time is it over there?”

Merlin looks down, likely checking the status bar for the time. “Five past five.”

“That's outrageously early.” And it actually explains why Merlin's under eye area is the colour of an aubergine. “What the hell are you doing up?”

“I set my alarm a little earlier,” Merlin says, huffing a gentle laugh. “Thought I'd be able to catch you awake if I did.”

Arthur makes a quick calculation. “You could have slept a few more hours at least.”

Merlin knuckles his eyes and his lips twitch. He looks both like a sleep deprived kid and a wry man of the world. How he can give off both vibes at once is a bit of a mystery to Arthur but so Merlin is. “But then I wouldn't have been able to talk to you and it's been a while.”

“Yeah.” Arthur's had such a full immersion in his duties that it's been a long time since he last heard from Merlin. “At least what, two weeks.”

“Yeah.” Merlin rakes a hand through his hair and knuckles his scalp. “I've written one more chapter of my thesis while you were away.”

“That's good.” Arthur's trying to think of clever comments he can make on its subject when Merlin goes and asks a question of his own.

“Tell me about what's going on with you. How's China?”

Arthur could say a lot of platitudes at this point but he chooses to go for the truth. “It would have been lovely if I had been able to enjoy a minute of it.”

“Why haven't you?” Merlin frowns into his webcam.

Arthur pushes the chair away from the desk. “You'll think me whiny and unappreciative.”

“Not unless you really are,” Merlin says, dropping his gaze. “Just tell me what's wrong.”

“It's only that I've had no time to really look at anything,” Arthur says. “I'm on a schedule and it's mostly take this plane here, shake that hand there, oh there Your Highness, you have a whole minute to look at the Forbidden City.”

“I don't think I would have liked it either.” Merlin chews on his lips. “There's nothing whiny about that.”

Arthur's head jerks up. “Really?”

“Yeah. I don't think you're reacting wrong here.” Merlin nods and his lips quiver into a smile. “Though I'm completely jealous about the Forbidden City.”

“Maybe if you marry Morgana you can hitch a ride on a state visit.” Arthur doesn't know why he says that. He ought to be against it. Father has ordered him to put a stop to the relationship. And while he refuses to, has admitted as much to both himself and Merlin, he's inexplicably unsettled by the thought Morgana would settle down. Perhaps it's because she's too young, but he feels a surge of discomfort at the idea of his sister being married. “Or something.”

“Hold your horses,” Merlin says, laughter hiccupping out of him. “You're fantasising.”

Arthur wants to ask if that is true because he can't imagine anything easier than someone asking Merlin to marry them. And Morgana is set in defiance mode so she might not wait before she does. Still, Arthur doesn't want to harp on the subject. He doesn't want to keep talking about the day it really happens. He doesn't even try and probe Merlin as to where his relationship with Morgana is going. He just says, “Perhaps.”

“So tell me about your day,” Merlin says.

Arthur does. He doesn't share anything about the incident with the ambassador. It hits too close too home. It's something that's burrowed too deep under skin and that yet manages to feel both irrelevant and rife with nuances. But he does tell Merlin about the rest of his morning activities, his ambassadorial duties, the security nightmare of having to have a bodyguard constantly at your back – Merlin makes a joke that is wholly crass and has Arthur in stitches – and about the never-ending six-course dinner he was offered. They talk for hours, until all sound in the embassy building dims for the night, and until light floods the room Merlin's in.

“Oh, shit,” Merlin says, shooting out of his chair so all Arthur's got is a visual of his chest. “It's nearly eight. I've got to meet my supervisor.”

Though Arthur's hoarse, there's still a lot he'd meant to say to Merlin. He's sure Merlin would have laughed at Lady Sarah Sloane's social faux pas and that he would have wanted to know about the bet Percival and Owain had placed on her committing another. But he's aware Merlin's got to go. “Well, break a leg then.”

“Good night, Arthur.”

The sheets are fresh, the room warm, but he can't sleep. He stares at the ceiling, watches the light from outside seep past the glazing of the windows, washing the room in swathes of pearly luminescence. Arthur rolls onto his flank and looks at the crisp, untouched expanse of linen beside him.

He lowers his pyjamas trousers, palms his flaccid cock. At the first surge of sensation, he bites his lip. He breathes, closes his eyes, refuses to entertain a single thought. He palms himself, putting little pressure behind his touch so it's a tease, so he can't get there fast. Tension builds up inside him; his muscles lock. As he pushes into his own hand, he feels himself go harder, grow heavier.

Arthur worries his lips with his top teeth, buries his face into his pillow, inhaling a whiff of camphor and detergent instead of the human scent he wants. Which is something he oughtn't focus on. He should only get off as quick as he can, without dwelling on desires that have no place in his life, things he can't have.

Hushing his sobs in the pillow, he thrusts into his hand, his cock dragging against his palm and burning with the friction.

Though it could be better if this was smoother, if it was someone else touching him, it still doesn't feel bad at all.

His breath shortens, his senses get keener, so he's focused on his body in a way he rarely is. He grinds his hips, strokes himself with more force, more purpose.

As heat pools low in his belly, his head lightens of blood. Warmth expands low in his guts, curling at the base of his spine, working in tides that encompass his cock, his bones, his flesh. When Arthur starts bucking into his own hand, the warmth gets channelled into keen bursts of pleasure.

Arthur breathes, lightens his touch, traces the ridge of his cock with his fingers, before upping the tempo again. He lets himself fantasise. He doesn't give a name or face to his imaginings, but he does envision touches, body parts, hands and legs, the length of spines, the sharp profiles of faces. He pictures the reactions of phantom lovers who are not there, gasps, smiles, kisses. It takes so little really to make his heart beat that little bit faster. A jumble of visions, an impression of something that barely skims his consciousness.

His breath catches low in his throat. The overworking of his lungs sends his heart into a frantic measure of a beat. Before long he's changed his rhythm to one that's more purposeful. He fists his cock going from base to head, fast. It gets hot and frantic, a little painful. It's good for what it is, considering it's not what he wants. What he wants is a mouth to kiss, a smile to press against his. He wants to hear a heart drum as frantically as his.

He quickens his tempo until he's fucking his fist in punishing thrusts. Orgasm comes quick after that, unsurprising, but dizzying, not quite as satisfying as the fantasy that had played in his brain, the one he can't poke at.

Sweaty, hot about the face and chest, he slumps back onto his bed. He lets his breathing go back to a more normal pace, falls asleep.

 

**** 

 

The deck chair faces the garden and the tree line beyond. On the table close to it sit a bottle and two glasses. Their surface reflects the light of the morning sun.

Grass springy under his heels, Arthur walks to the chair. With his shoes in his hands he doesn't make much noise. His voice sounds like a shot when he says, “First day of Spring and you're already sunning yourself.”

Gwaine catapults himself out of the chair, hugs Arthur and slaps him so hard on the back it echoes in Arthur's ribcage. “So you're back from your tour of Asia.”

“Yes.” Arthur smiles a lopsided smile. “As you can see.”

Gwaine pours him champagne. “So how many countries this time?”

“Three,” Arthur says, accepting the glass and sitting on the chair across from Gwaine's. “Without counting the stopovers.”

“Tough.”

Though it's way too early in the morning for it, Arthur drinks some of the champagne. It's excellent, fresh and bubbly with an after-taste of peaches. But then again Gwaine's a connoisseur. “So who was this set up for?”

“What? You don't believe my sixth sense told me you'd come?” Gwaine asks, bouncing his eyebrows up and down.

“You know I don't.” Arthur puts the glass down, gestures at the table. “So, again, who's this for?”

Gwaine smacks his lips together and sprawls back in the chair, feet planted wide of each other. “Ah, that's a secret, my friend.”

Arthur laughs. “Do you really think you can keep it that way? You're as subtle as a train wreck.”

Gwaine laces his hands over his belly. “Oh, let me enjoy my underhanded secrecy.”

Arthur shakes his head, lets it go. He sinks into the deck chair and arranges his body in a position similar to Gwaine's. They lapse into silence, listening to the birds sing from somewhere behind the tree line.

Gwaine being Gwaine, the silence doesn't last long. “What about you? Had any fun on your trip?”

Arthur gives Gwaine a sideways glance. “What do you think?”

“I think nothing'd be easier than getting some,” Gwaine says, squinting against the sun. “You can't tell me people aren't forming queues at your door for a chance to boff a prince.”

“And that's the problem,” Arthur says, though he's had this conversation with Gwaine before. It's just that Gwaine won't understand. “A horde of people blinded by my title. That's exactly what I want.”

“Most blokes I know would be happy to have hordes at their beck and call.”

Arthur has no doubt he's being difficult. But he's gone for the meaningless sex route before and it's always left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

“You're still not hung up about that school crush of yours, are you?”

Arthur digs his toes into the soft terrain. “It's not that. It's been so long and it never went anywhere anyway.”

“Not because you didn't want it to.” Gwaine turns his head just a little and though he's making a show of scanning the gardens, he's actually pinning Arthur with his gaze. “It was all your father's doing.”

Arthur laughs at the irony of it. “I'm not pining over Lancelot, Gwaine. It's been what, eleven years. I'd be completely batty if I was.”

“Then I don't get it.” Gwaine flails his hands about even if he's got a glass in one. “If you're not pining, why aren't you dating? Why aren't you, you know, getting some?”

Arthur sighs. He vastly preferred being on the other side of the questioning. “I just don't feel like it.”

Gwaine snorts.

Arthur's got to give it to him; he didn't sound very convinced. “The truth is Morgana's already got the rumour mill churning. I don't want to add fuel to the fire.”

“Bullshit,” Gwaine says, clucking his tongue. “Everybody knows about that Merlin fellow because she's been as overt as possible. You know I love Morgs--” Gwaine looks away, his mouth twisting sideways, a sigh coming on the heels of that moue. “But you can't say she doesn't like to be loud and brash so Uther will take notice. You can have affairs without anyone knowing, if you want to.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Arthur doesn't deny that. He's dated before and nobody's caught a whiff of his past relationships. There's a way of pulling it off, if one wants, that Morgana likes to ignore. “But you've got it wrong about Morgana.”

“What do you mean?”

Arthur's got to tread carefully here. He's known Gwaine so long and he doesn't want to hurt him. “I don't think this is what you think it is.”

“I think I know Morgs,” Gwaine says, the look in his eyes growing fonder. “I think I'm aware of how she tics and well...”

“She's serious about him,” Arthur's says. “Merlin's a good bloke.”

“Oh thank you, Arthur, thank you.” Gwaine cradles his heart as though he's wounded.

“You know what I mean.” Arthur waves his hands about in an attempt to explain a concept that's not as clear to him as he'd want it to be. “He's from a different world.”

“And here I thought he was an alien from Mars.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at Gwaine. “You know what I'm talking about. He's a genuine person with none of the hang ups of the rich. And he's smart, fun.”

“You sound like you've got more of a thing for him than Morgana does.” Gwaine belches out a laugh, loud and prolonged. He holds his sides, hands curling either side of his belly. “Really, you should hear yourself.”

A little thrill ripples inside Arthur's chest, jogs his heart and lashes his lungs into taking one deep breath. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm just pointing out that this guy is serious and it makes sense Morgana would want to settle down with him.”

“You know,” Gwaine says. “I should probably take this as some sort of personal affront, but I'm easy-going so I won't. I'll just say that Morgana is fantastic, a marvellous creature full of fire and spark--”

“This isn't Game of Thrones, Gwaine.”

“No, no, I know.” Gwaine shakes his mane and sniffs. “But she's also... of all of us, she's the least likely to settle down.”

“Gwaine--”

Gwaine holds his palm up. “No, I'm not saying this out of spite. It's brilliant the way she is. The good thing about Morgana is that she lives her life the way she wants to and takes no prisoners. And I don't think she'll be wanting to change that.”

“We all grow up, Gwaine,” Arthur says, rattling out a big breath.

Gwaine tips his head to one side and studies him out of thinned eyes. “Indeed, some of us have even done too much growing up and gone to the other extreme.”

Arthur presses his hand against his forehead. “Gwaine,” he starts, but then someone appears at the French windows, scattering his words.

A grin on his face, Gwaine shoots up and says, “My guest has arrived, if you'll excuse me.”

Arthur watches Gwaine jog up the path, kiss the cheek of the girl standing in the shadow of the house. When she catches his lips and the kiss becomes something more intimate, Arthur looks away, sighs, and makes his way back into the house by an alternate path.

 

***** 

 

The car rolls down the road, past a series of low houses shaped around the lines of a residential area.

Merlin is straining forwards in his seat, looking out the windows, bouncing in place. From time to time he quiets, putting his hands on his knees and stilling the motion of his legs. But it doesn't last very long. “I don't do very well with surprises, you know.”

Arthur smiles. “I can tell.”

Merlin takes to jiggling his foot again. “We're past the Common, so we're not going there. But then again why should we have gone there?”

“You'll find out in a minute.” Arthur puts his hand firmly on Merlin's leg and Merlin stops wriggling.

Their gazes converge on the point of contact. Arthur retracts his hand. Merlin's Adam's apple bobs. Arthur looks down, frowns.

Merlin darts his tongue over his mouth and says, “I'm sorry I'm such a spoilsport.”

“No, no, you're not,” Arthur says, shaping his hands around his own knees. “But I think you're going to enjoy this more if it comes as a complete surprise.”

The car slows and rumbles past a gate guarded by security types. A cluster of people is waiting in the wings of the opening doors. The personnel wear badges and matching jackets. Their backs are embossed with the words Space-time Adventures. Before ducking out of the car, Merlin mutters, “is this what I think it is?”

The moment he hits the courtyard, Arthur smiles for the cameras but this time it comes easy, because Merlin is goggling at the man Arthur’s shaking hands with and that is quite funny.

“Your Highness,” the man says, mugging for the camera as he holds the pose with Arthur, “welcome on the set of Space-time Adventures.”

By the time Arthur is allowed to turn to him, Merlin has gone pepper red. “This is my friend, Merlin Emrys,” Arthur says, introducing Merlin to the producer. “He's a big fan of the show.”

“We're very happy to have a fan of the show on board for this visit,” the producer says, giving Merlin's hand a lusty shake.

“I really loved episode three from last series so much,” Merlin blurts out.

When he does, the crew around them burst out laughing. As they enter the studios, Merlin catches Arthur's eyes and mimes a thank you he breaks off with a grin.

“This is where we shoot the interiors,” the producer says, leading them down a corridor crowded with cast and crew. Some wear tool belts and are clearly technicians. Others are carrying sheaves of paper work and are likely to be assistants. A number of them are talking into walkie talkies or drinking by the vending machines. At the sight of Arthur they all in one body stop doing whatever they'd previously been at. Some freeze. Some make wide eyes at him. A bold few even attempt nods or, in one case, curtsies.

Arthur tries not to notice that but he has a formal smile ready for all and sundry anyway.

The producer keeps to the schedule that was discussed with the palace. First he shows Arthur – and Merlin by extension – the props department. Swords, futuristic laser rifles twice as large as Arthur's arm as well as a strange set of goggles lie on a table. The props master explains the history of their design to Arthur, shows him the preparatory sketches and the finished product. He tells him about the general look of the weapons and what that look means in terms of the show's general aesthetics.

While Arthur nods politely, photos are taken of him. As this happens he also tries to make sense of what is being told to him, but most of it flies right over his head at a technical level. He's however happy to notice that Merlin is deep in conversation with one of the crew. He's making big gestures with his hands, smiling from ear to ear and bouncing his head up and down in agreement with whatever's being said to him.

At one point Arthur overhears him saying, “Wow, really. That's cool. I'd trade a kidney to use one of those.”

In response, the crew person hands Merlin an unwieldy bazooka-like weapon. Now Arthur's fairly sure the thing's plastic and largely fake, but he still wonders whether Merlin will be able to brain himself with it.

“Sir?” the producer says, coughing a little. “Sir?”

Arthur zeroes in on the man. He's a step behind the props-master, occupying a spot he hadn't been in but a few moments before. “Yes?”

“The visit continues this way...”

Arthur follows the producer around. He's shepherded into the costume department, where Arthur's shown more designs. While he's listening to another spiel about the costumes designers' contribution to the show, another small photo op takes place. In the hubbub, he loses Merlin, but finds him again when they're marched onto one of the sound stages.

After a meet and greet with the actors, Arthur's invited to watch a scene. Special headphones have been set aside for him: they're inscribed with the letters HR. Arthur and the crew joke about that before silence is called on stage.

The scene, from what Arthur can make out, is a simple one. The main character, Mission Leader is telling his acolyte that they're trapped and that oxygen is running out. The actors are both in a spacesuit; the portal behind them has been made to look like a contraption NASA made.

“Save yourself.”

“No, I'm not going without you, Mission Leader.”

“You need to go,” the actor playing Mission Leader says. “You need to steal into the capsule and fly back to the Chronos so you can turn back time. If you do, none of this will have--”

Arthur slips the headphones off, manhandles Merlin into his chair, and, leaning over him, arranges the headphones on his ears. The smile that breaks on Merlin's face as he hears the lines is worth the entire visit. He watches the action both live and on the director's screen. His eyes take on a shine and it's clear he's holding himself rigid so he won't flail and jiggle as he had in the car.

It's the end of the day and they're walking towards the car with an escort of Percival, Owain and members of the Ealing Studios security personnel, when Merlin stops in his tracks, turns around, and hugs Arthur. Just like that, with his arms around Arthur and his breath in his ear. He's warm and his warmth seeps into Arthur, burrowing under layers of his skin and kick-starting his heart into rabbiting. “Thank you,” he says, the shape of his words grazed onto Arthur's skin. “This has been the best day ever.”

The embrace lasts for a few beats. Arthur's able to sense the rise and fall of Merlin's chest, of the span of him, of his physical presence, before they both stiffen and step out of it at the same time.

Merlin babbles, “It's just that I used to watch the show with my dad when I was a boy, well the version of it that was on then, and it was a tradition between us, before he, well, took a hike, and you don't know how much this means to me.”

Arthur reads pain and joy in Merlin's eyes and everything in between. In a way it's amazing how much Merlin can shine with all of it, with his feelings written large all over his face. The twinkling of his gaze and the dimpling of his cheeks. Arthur doesn't know how he can even function like that. If he were in Merlin's shoes, he'd be terrified of spilling all his secrets. Even as it is, he can't think of anything to say to Merlin that won't put him in the same spotlight. “Really, Merlin, it was pretty easy to do.”

“Still,” Merlin says, shifting, ruffling the hair on the back of his skull. “I just wanted you to know.”

 

**** 

 

As the doors open before him, Arthur experiences a feeling of déjà-vu. This time, however, his father isn't seated behind his desk, but pacing up and down around it.

“Ah,” Uther says, stopping in the middle of his perambulation, “you're here, good.”

“You wanted to talk to me?” Arthur asks the question though it's more a matter of form than a genuine wish to become acquainted with the facts. The summons Arthur got were formal enough in nature there was no saying no to them.

“As a matter of fact,” Uther says, walking over to the coffee table. “Yes, I did.”

Arthur quirks an eyebrow. “I'm all ears.”

Uther moves a daintily ornamented tea-cup aside and picks ups a newspaper, handing it over to him.

Even before he's opened it, Arthur can guess what sort of newspaper he's been given. The splash of colour would have alerted anyone to the nature of the publication. He doesn't even need to read the title to guess what it is about though he does give the headline a perfunctory skim. “Is Princess Morgana Eloping?” Arthur laughs and tosses the paper on the sofa. “I hardly think so, sir.”

“I know she's not.” Uther glares at him. “I have people on her. I'd know if she had.”

Arthur bristles and a muscle in his jaw cramps. He rubs at his face to work it off. Then says, “I don't see what's the problem.”

“The problem is that she's off in Scotland with this Emrys fellow.”

Oh so that's where the elopement idea came from. “Well, I'm sure it's just a weekend off.”

“The newspaper says she's attending a graduation party,” Uther says, his lips curling downwards. “What I want to know is why Emrys is in tow. Why you've accomplished nothing in regards to him.”

“Father.” Arthur's shoulders sag. “I've met Merlin and I think he's a good man and it wouldn't be too bad if he stuck around.”

“What?” Uther sticks his chin out. “I fail to understand what you might possibly mean.”

Arthur suspects his father understood him the first time around and that he's simply trying to make his point by showing how immoveable he is. “It's just that it's not that bad. Merlin's not in it for his personal gain. I'd know if he was. And he's good at heart. You'd know if you bothered to talk to him.”

Uther jerks his head round. “That's a preposterous proposition.”

“So I think--” He closes his eyes when he experiences a moment of dizziness, a strange kind of weightlessness that leaves him with no grounding. “I think Morgana chose the right man.”

“I won't hear any more of this,” Uther says, walking towards his desk, his back to Arthur.

Arthur picks the newspaper he cast aside back up. “You're forgetting something. Morgana isn't hanging out with sycophantic cronies who're into drugs. She isn't partying wildly.” If Arthur doesn't put a dent in his father's armour with this, he doesn't know what will help. “She's attending--” He rolls out the paper so he can get a quote. “--the graduation party of Dumfries born fellow student Morgause Lothian.”

“Whatever you're trying to get at,” Uther says, unbuttoning his jacket so he can sit in his chair, “don't bother, Arthur.”

“I'm only saying that Merlin isn't a bad influence.” He's anything but, actually. Arthur had been so ready to find fault and he'd instead ran into an upright man. “There's no need for an intervention.” This, Arthur suspects, won't have much weight with his father. But something else might. “And if you make him go--” Arthur must choose the right words here. “She might take it into her head to provoke you further.”

That does seem to make an impression. “You think she'd grow wilder?”

“You know Morgana.” Arthur arches an eyebrow. “What good would goading her do?”

“You may be right.” Uther's brow furrows in thought. “Maybe the subtler approach would be better.”

“Yes.” Arthur can breathe again, though all of this still sits wrong with him. “It would.”

“Let's make her believe we have forgotten about her relationship,” Uther says, rubbing his chin. “She'll begin to lose interest and that's when we'll nip it in the bud.”

There's so much that is wrong with that, Arthur can't even begin to process. Voicing his protests, though, wouldn't help in the least. If anything, it'd be counter-productive. Besides, Arthur can buy time like this. To what end, it's not clear to him, since he can see the whole situation imploding. But he owes this to Merlin and to Morgana. “Yes, that's the best plan.”

“Let's stick to it for now,” Uther says, putting on his glasses and opening a book. “We can always change course the moment Mr Emrys gets out of hand.”

Those words are still ringing in Arthur's ears after he's been dismissed, when Arthur gets a call. He signals to Percival and Owen to stop in their tracks and puts the phone to his ear. “Hey, Merlin.”

“Arthur, I'm besieged.”

“Wait,” Arthur says, walking into one of the Palace's inner courtyards, “wait, I can't hear you. What are you talking about?”

There's a creak and then a noise like a door being slammed. “I can't go out of the house because there's a horde of journalists waiting outside.”

“Oh, that.” Arthur supposes the article his Father alerted him to must have fuelled the press' interest in Merlin anew. “They probably think you secretly married Morgana in Scotland.”

“I read that garbage, thank you.” A footfall thunders and Merlin sounds winded. “It was just a graduation party for Morgause, no elopement. The law doesn't even work like that anymore.”

“Well, for a moment there I did think you'd done the deed.”

“Yes, because life is a Jane Austen novel and like Morgana wouldn't have my balls on a platter if I proposed something like that.”

“Yeah, you're right.” Arthur smiles, props himself against a wall. “And we wouldn't want to cause such an affliction, would we?”

“No, I pretty much like my balls where they are.”

Arthur chuckles low in his throat, leans his head back and swallows. “Yeah, I can imagine. I'd rather prefer my sister didn't do anything so drastic myself.”

“Thank you for your kindness towards my poor balls.” Merlin sounds torn between annoyance and laughter. “But you haven't addressed the other, urgent matter.” Merlin's close to whining now. “What do I do?”

“About the paps?”

“Yeah.”

Arthur scrubs a hand through his hair. “You'll have to wait them out. They'll lose interest again. These things are cyclical.” Arthur pauses. “Hopefully Madonna does something and all the attention will shift onto her.”

“Ha, ha,” Merlin tells him. “But this is serious. I'm writing the last chapter of my thesis and that's important. I can't do that with--” An odd and alarming sound drowns Merlin's voice. “Hey, off my lawn! See, that's what I mean. I can't concentrate with those people constantly trying to sneak in. How the hell do I finish this!”

“I've got an idea,” Arthur says.

 

**** 

Arthur slams the door shut and goes for the boot. As he picks up the grocery bags, Merlin exits the car too. He stands there, legs wide apart, chin in the air. “You can't mean it!”

Arthur closes the boot and rejoins Merlin. “Of course I can.”

“But this house--” He gestures at it, his arms flailing wildly. “I can't stay there.”

“Why?” Arthur asks, walking to the main entrance. He puts his grocery bags down and the key in the lock. “It's empty. You need a place to stay.” He kicks the door open with his toe and enters the house. “And I've already got a place.”

Merlin trails after him, looking round, goggling at everything. “Yeah, that... that's not how it works.”

The house hasn't changed much. Though some of the amenities have become old-fashioned, the décor and lay out are obviously the same and Arthur finds the kitchen easily. Despite its state of disuse, it's spotless and Arthur's glad for it. He deposits the bags on the tiled counter and says, “it's exactly how this works. My mother bought this place to have some peace and quiet when she was expecting us.”

Merlin appears on the threshold; his eyes go wide. “Oh.”

“She needed to be away from journalists who wanted a scoop on her pregnancy,” Arthur explains, swallowing against the knot in his throat. “She bought this house so it could be some kind of haven, for her.” He arranges bottles and packages on the counter. He lines them up in order from the tallest to the shortest item. “It was purchased for that purpose so I see it as no stretch if you were to use it as a hidey-hole.”

“Arthur--” Merlin walks over to him, the counter between them. “Arthur, you can't do this for me.”

Arthur looks up from his array of provisions. “Of course I can. You said it yourself, you can't work with the paps haunting your house and calling your number at all hours of the day. I can provide you with a place where you can do what you have to in peace. I don't see why I shouldn't make the offer or why you shouldn't accept it.”

“Because this was your Mum's place.” Merlin makes earnest eyes at him. They're very dewy and a deeper blue than usual. Very persuasive. “This place must be very important for you and I can't stay here.”

“Merlin.” Arthur tosses his head and squeezes his nose. “Do I love this place? Yes, because it was hers. Do I think it should become a shrine with no one to use it? No, I don't.”

“But your father...”

“I thought you didn't read those trash mags.” Arthur pushes up an eyebrow.

“Look, I don't know if your father really had the place shut up because--”

“It reminds him of my mother?” Arthur really doesn't want Merlin to run away with the wrong idea. “Yes, that part is true. But when I turned eighteen this house became mine as it was always meant to be. And what I'm choosing to do is using it.”

“Arthur, I don't think I should--” Merlin starts again as if he hasn't heard a word Arthur's said.

Which Arthur won't have. “Merlin, don't walk on eggshells around me.”

“Arthur, I'm sorry, I--”

Arthur strides into the drawing room. It's airy and faces the back garden. The visual ought to calm him but doesn't. His heart beats fast and his thoughts churn at a speed that doesn't allow him to pin any down. His head droops and he places his hands at his hips.

The footfall is light but Arthur hears it all the same. “If it makes you feel better, I'll stay,” Merlin says. “I just don't want to take advantage.”

Arthur turns round. “Let me give you a tour of the premises.”

Over the next week, Merlin keeps him updated on the status of his thesis and on his general well-being. He tells Arthur how he's coping in his hidey-hole and cracks jokes about feeling like he's under witness protection. With Merlin unable to go out without being noticed, Leon and Percival are under strict orders to run errands for him. They ply him with food Arthur suspects ends up in the cupboards, not to be eaten, and they even get him video games so he can while away his down time.

When Friday comes round and Arthur's free from all engagements, it's him who comes round with food and supplies. He feels he has a responsibility to seeing as Morgana apparently isn't doing any of this herself. He ought to do his part in the name of family honour and so as to make up for Morgana's short-sightedness.

Merlin opens the door on him and gawps. “Oh my God, let me get these off you,” he says, taking the bags from Arthur and depositing them in the kitchen. “Arthur, you shouldn't have. All this shopping and from a farmers' market too.”

Arthur reddens. “I must confess I didn't exactly go there myself.”

As he stows the supplies away, Merlin says, “I suppose I should invite Perce and Owain to my graduation party. I owe them.”

They have a glass of wine in the garden, on the bench under the eaves. The wine had been chilled and it's sloshing in tall glasses Merlin swears he's afraid of smashing. They watch the sun lower and paint the sky orange, birds vaulting across the horizon.

“I've pained you with all the details of my thesis,” Merlin says, propping his feet on a garden chair, but I haven't asked you about what you've been up to.”

“Boring stuff mostly.” Arthur lifts his shoulder a fraction. “Spent the morning signing papers. The afternoon.” His shoulders sink back into place. “I visited a children's hospital. In many ways it's always... eye-opening.”

“Must have been a hard day.”

Arthur sips some of his wine. “Not as much as theirs.”

“Yeah. But still, it must have had some impact.” Merlin lays the weight of his hand on Arthur's wrist. “Why don't I make you dinner?”

Arthur feels he ought to refuse, that he must have overstayed his welcome, that he's complicating things by staying. He tries to get comfortable in his own skin, but for some reason it keeps feeling as though it's stretched so thin it might crack and split him at the seams. “You don't have to.”

“I really owe you.” Merlin puts the glass down. “So unless you've got a state dinner to attend to...”

Arthur doesn't and it probably shows on his face.

“I'm cooking for you.”

Merlin doesn't seem to know what the majority of kitchen implements stashed in the cupboards do. They're all new, all wrapped in plastic, and Merlin looks from one to the other with such an air of confusion on his face Arthur bursts out laughing. Merlin even picks them up one by one and paws at them until a few come apart. “Perhaps I'd better make an omelette?”

“Yeah,” Arthur answers, unable to quite quench the laughter. “Or we could always choose the starving option.”

Merlin sticks his tongue out at him, puts a pan on the range and breaks two eggs inside it.

“Aren't you supposed to beat the eggs first?”

They end up having scrambled eggs with cheese and bacon. The bacon is crispy and the cheese has melted into the eggs, so, in spite of Merlin's lack of culinary skills, the dish is edible. Actually, Arthur would go as far as to say – albeit not to Merlin, whom he'd rather rib on his inefficiency – it's quite good. Though they don't drink from glasses this time, they have wine with their food. They share the bottle, pass it to and fro, taking hefty slugs from it, until Merlin's red in the face and droopy eyed. Arthur himself feels warm in the pit of his stomach and a smile pastes itself on his face with no specific reason for it to be there.

A little sluggishly, they move into the drawing room. Merlin somehow gets Ygraine's old TV set to function properly so they can watch a film that makes no sense. When they want to make fun of the most preposterous aspects of it, they seek each other's gazes. By the time the film is half way over, Arthur stomach muscles hurt with how much he's laughed. He's mellowed to the very bones. Even so when the credits roll, Arthur stands. “I should go.”

Merlin hooks a leg between his so Arthur can't move without tripping. “Don't.”

“What?”

“Don't go,” Merlin says, putting his words slowly together. His eyelids are down and is face is flushed. “It's late and you can't drive back to London.”

“I never drive.” In fact he has drivers for that and Owain and Percival are waiting in the wings, ready to escort him to Kensington Palace at a moment's notice. “You know that.”

“Stay.” Merlin reaches a hand out to him. “Just... for another film.”

Arthur lets himself be pulled down. This time he lands much closer to Merlin so they're sitting side by side, Merlin's warmth leaking into Arthur, their feet bumping each other.

After some channel hopping, they settle on an old film. The voices of the actors are somewhat high-pitched and their elocution is outmoded. But it doesn't matter much because neither he nor Merlin are concentrating on what's going on. Merlin's eyelids are slowly slipping closed and Arthur's thought processes have slowed down almost nothing.

When Merlin starts softly snoring, Arthur smiles, puts a cushion under his head, and closes his own eyes.

When Arthur wakes, it's clearly morning. The sky is streaked with pink and soft light is streaming across his face. His back hurts and he has a crick in the neck. When he moves, he realises that his legs are tangled with Merlin's and that his chin is resting on Merlin's shoulder.

He could move, he supposes, but he'd wake Merlin. So, as he watches Merlin, he remains as still as he can. Only his chest rises and sinks.

Merlin's mouth is parted and his hair's sitting in a tuft on top of his head. His face is relaxed, the only lines on it those mirroring the sofa's fabric. It looks as though he's had a good night's sleep and he's at peace. Arthur's heart flips at that, constricts and expands in painful throbs. And it's so clear then what this is. He's never expected it and he's never chased it, but there it is, bright and painful and tender. It's larger than life, like breakers crashing on the shore.

Merlin opens his eyes and they shine. His gaze grazes Arthur's and it's perfect.

Shivers play under Arthur's skin and he can do nothing but give in to them. Even with trembling hands, Arthur reaches for Merlin. He cups his face, meets his eyes, and as they continue to shine brightly and openly, Arthur leans in. As he does, he looks into Merlin's eyes. They shine clear and soft. Neither of them breaks eye contact for a single instant.

The moment he touches his lips to Merlin's, his lungs falter and the world blurs. He kisses him soft and slow, catching Merlin' lower lip between his own and rubbing them together ‘til everything falls by the way side, the morning, the world, his identity. When Merlin's tongue grazes his, slick and wet and hot, the touch sparks a fire in Arthur's body. It chases up his spine, warm and electrifying. It lashes his heart into a double kick, which morphs into true thundering when Merlin curls his hand around Arthur's nape, toying with his hair, and pulls him towards him.

It's good. It's perfect. And it is, he realises with a surge of shame that twists his insides, utterly wrong. Because Morgana is his sister and no matter how earth shattering this is, she must come first with him. His love for her should win out over others.

With a sob, he jerks away and pulls himself up. “I ought to go,” he says.

Merlin's face quivers into crumpling, and the devastation on it nearly tears Arthur to shreds. But Arthur can't listen to him, can't stay a moment more, not without damning himself entirely, not without betraying everything he's ever held dear. He's out before Merlin can say a word.

 

***** 

 

Leon opens the door and invites Aglain Monk in. Monk makes a beeline for Arthur's desk.

Arthur stands and leans over the work surface to shake Mr Monk's hand. “It's a pleasure to see you again.”

“For me too, Your Highness,” Aglain says. “I cannot thank you enough for the opportunity.”

Arthur waves at the chair. “Please, do take a seat.”

Aglain and Leon take seats at the same time.

Rounding the desk, Arthur does the same. “It's been a while since we last talked --” He nods to both Leon and Aglain, for they had both been present at the time. “--but I hear your group has been doing well.”

“Oh yes.” Aglain nods vigorously. “I gave Mr Knight all the relative papers.”

“I have indeed received them,” Leon interjects.

“They all indicate that our charity has made incredible progress,” Aglain says, illustrating the point with his hands. “We have continued delivering good quality services throughout the Cambrian area. We have implemented a range of activities that are empowering members of the community. We have focused on our advocacy, carers' support, and hotline back up, but we do need more.” Aglain pauses. Since he hasn't run out of breath, Arthur must suppose it's for effect. “To really increase our effectiveness and spread awareness, we need Royal support, Your Highness.”

“You are aware,” Arthur says, “that I'm already the patron of some twenty organisations. The Prince's Charity Foundation supports a handful more. You’ll surely understand how careful we must be when it comes to accepting--”

Though he was sure he had turned it off, Arthur's phone vibrates.

Arthur says, “I'm sorry about this. I'll--” He picks his mobile up, swipes a thumb across its screen surface, and before he knows it he's confronted with the text he just received. It comes from Merlin's number. It says, _Arthur, I'm so, so sorry for causing you discomfort. I apologise._ Upon reading it, Arthur's chest stitches up. His stomach pinches and he has to fight down a wave of irrepressible longing that washes him off his feet. He reads the last line and feels himself flounder. _Please, tell me we're fine._

“I, uh--” Arthur puts his hand at the back of his head and holds it there, looks at his guest. “I'm sorry, I need to take a moment. I--”

“Please, Your Highness,” Aglain says, “don't hesitate on my behalf. I'll wait.”

Arthur looks from his phone, which he's crashing in his palm, to Aglain. He knows what he ought to do. He ought to turn his phone off and attend to the meeting. But he's drowning, heart beating hard in his chest, the rest of him speared hollow. And he has to. “I won't be a moment, Mr Monk.”

Mobile in hand, Leon screwing his eyebrows together at him, Arthur exits the room. He reaches the landing. A swathe of light cutting in from the window stretches across one half of it. The other is in shadows. Arthur paces from this area to the other, toing and froing for a whole minute before his mobile shakes in his palm again. Twice.

He makes himself look because he owes it to Merlin, but he's not quite prepared for Merlin's words.

_I know it's my fault and if I could unwind time I would._

Arthur doesn't. He doesn't want to unwind time and forget the friend that he'd allowed himself to have, even for such a short time. Rather he wants to cling to it, to his memories of it. But he knows the break must come. He wipes at his nose and, breathing in and out, reads the second message.

_Please, please Arthur, let us discuss this in person. I'll never cross the line again, but you matter to me and i need to explain and i can't do it like this._

Arthur was too young to remember his mother well but he does remember the day Morgana came home. It was very late at night, a later hour than Arthur had ever been allowed up. The sky outside was pitch dark and all noises from outside had hushed, like they do when no one's up, not even the animals in the park outside. His nanny having fallen asleep with a book on her knees, Arthur stole down the big stairs all by himself, directing his steps to the hall.

His father came in through the door, taking his raincoat off and shaking it dry of the rain that had soaked it through. A second figure followed in after Father, a bundle in her arms. Arthur's heart beat faster and he stumbled down the last two steps. “Mum,” he said, before realising that the woman wasn't his mother. Her hair wasn't as shiny as the sun's as his Mum's was and she was much, much taller and larger.

“Where's my Mum?” Arthur said, letting go of the banister and making towards his father. “I want to see my Mum.”

“I'm sorry, Your Highness,” the woman said, just as a cry, one coming from the bundle, pierced his ears. “Your mother is...” The woman licked her lips until they shone white in the moonlight. “Your mother is...”

His father draped his coat on a chair and said, “Your mother died giving birth to your sister, Arthur.”

The bundle, which Arthur then instinctively understood must be his sister, howled louder.

“I want my Mum,” Arthur said, not sure he had got all of this straight. He knew what dead meant. Arthur had lost his grandmother and one grandfather. A puppy dog that was part of the litter he got for his birthday had died. When Arthur had gone to play with it he'd found that its muzzle had gone cold and that it wouldn't move. He also accidentally killed a goldfish because he hadn't known they couldn't breathe outside their bowl. But he didn't understand how his Mum could be it, dead. “I want my Mum, not a sister!”

He ran back towards the stairs. He must have taken them too fast because he stumbled. Pain flared bright in his face and something in his mouth tasted bittersweet and vile. He shouldn't have, because big boys don't, but he cried.

His father picked him up by the arm and walked him to bed. For his pains Arthur got two stitches on his chin and a coloured plaster – blue. As he was seen to, he vowed he'd never look at his sister.

Keeping his promise to himself, Arthur didn't go see his sister the following morning. He played with his pups instead. He wasn't there when his sister turned one month old. And he wasn't there when she had her first fever and doctors were scurrying around and everybody had drawn faces.

It was only when his nanny told him that Morgana would recover that Arthur really understood she might have died like their mother had.

That night Arthur waited for his nanny to fall asleep and when she started snoring thickly he sneaked out of his bedroom – he was getting pretty good at this – and went to Morgana’s room. It was swathed in darkness but Arthur could easily make out the crib. It was a glaring white. He walked to it but because he was too short, he couldn't see what was in it. He climbed up one side and peeked over the wooden rim.

The baby had a scrunched up face, pudgy little body and plump legs. She was, Arthur thought, ugly. But when Arthur leant over, she blinked sleepy eyes at him and pumped arms and legs in the air. A little fascinated by the motion, Arthur touched his hand to hers and she made a grab for his finger. She held onto him tight, as if she needed him. Arthur thought she probably did because she was only tiny and, without their Mum, alone.

“I will look after you,” Arthur said. “I will protect you.”

Arthur shakes himself out of the memory, stares at his mobile screen ‘til his eyes get misty with it, then steels his jaw. His fingers are big and clumsy and he forms the words slowly. His heart sears his chest, burns it ‘til it's nothing, but he makes himself go on. He considers the words he's written.

_we can't see each other again._

It's curt, it's to the point, and it's the only answer he can give Merlin in view of what's happened between them.

His tongue tastes like ashes, but he makes himself press send.

He walks back into his office and tells Leon and Aglain, “I think we were discussing the inclusion of your group among the Prince's Charities.”

 

**** 

 

The chauffeur opens the door while Percival and Owain flank him. With them in his wings, Arthur crosses the street and makes for the entrance to the store, cameras flashing in his wake. Past the set of revolving doors he steps onto an open plan room. Well-lit display cases range from one end of it to the other. They're crammed with silver and gold objects, tangled with crystals, brimming with watches, diamonds, necklaces, rings, bracelets, all draped over velvet beds. All of them down to the furthest one in the corner are lit by blazing halogen lights.

Arthur's skimming over a few of these, when one of the shops assistants, a diminutive young woman wearing a sleek blazer and skirt combo – tells him, “Good afternoon, sir, I'm Mab, how can I help you?”

Arthur smiles politely and says, “I'm looking for something a bit special, a present.”

“You've certainly come to the right place, sir,” Mab says, hinting at the most professional of smiles. “If you'd be so kind as to follow me.”

While Percival and Owain hang back, Arthur follows the shop assistant. They walk past a few cases displaying various pieces of jewellery, the most stunning of which is a gold and emerald collar guarded by two security staff.

“May I ask if the present's for a lady or gentleman?”

“Lady,” Arthur says.

Mab slides behind a counter, next to a man in a dark suit and white shirt. “Mr Compton, sir, His Highness would like to be shown some of our Star Collection.”

“Oh would he, indeed,” Mr Compton says, as though Arthur's got any idea what they're talking about. “Excellent choice, Your Highness, excellent choice.”

Mr Compton disappears behind a glass door that slips open only after he's punched in a code. When Mr Compton returns, Arthur and Mab are talking about the weather. He places a box on the counter and unlocks it with a little silver key.

He lifts the lid and turns the box around. Rows of assorted jewellery sit in the box's compartments, shining gold, silver, or pearly white.

Lightly humming under his breath, Arthur studies the contents of the box intently. After some time he selects a bracelet from the top compartment. It's a thickly woven band with round emeralds set in it.

“Quite beautiful,” Arthur says, as he turns the bracelet in his hands. “I just don't know if it's right for the person I have in mind.”

“It's a fine piece of jewellery, sir,” Mr Compton says, “fine gold, twenty carats. The emeralds are from India. They were previously set in another bracelet which belonged to a Russian archduchess.”

Perhaps that object is burdened with too sad a history. Arthur sets the bracelet back in the box and moves onto the row above. This time he picks up a watch with a pearl band.

“Oh that is quite a lovely choice, sir,” says Mab with a suggestive grin. “The design is quite youthful although it can also be a classic staple.”

Thinking this is exactly what he's looking for Arthur says, “I think this might do.”

“It's such a charming watch,” says Mab. “One that says I care.”

“I'll take it.” Arthur puts the watch on the counter. “Could you wrap it for me?”

“Of course,” Mab says, leaning down to make a grab for wrapping materials.

As Mab puts the watch in its box, Arthur asks for a card he can fill. He's given a square cardboard one that's edged with gold. On it he writes, “Happy twenty-first, Morgana. Much Love, Arthur.”

He slips the card in the envelope and secures the top flap under the fold.

“Here you go, sir,” Mab says, handing over a neat, tasteful little box.

Arthur hopes he's made the right choice.

 

***** 

 

**Is Prince Arthur About To Propose?**

Speculation is mounting that Prince Arthur is on the brink of proposing to his secret girlfriend. After the Royal was sighted at high end jewellery store Asprey's last Monday, tongues started wagging and bets were placed on a date to be set for the announcement! Friends of the mysterious couple insist the pair will make their first ever public appearance over the weekend and surely before June is over. Until now the lovers have kept an extremely low profile, managing to never be pictured together at all, and to only meet privately or at friends'.

Royal insiders claim that the Prince, 28, has been dating the same lucky girl for the past year; other sources maintain that the relationship has become far more serious and they are expecting a wedding date to be announced soon.

Arthur sparked rumours off earlier this month by repeatedly disappearing from the social scene over a number of weekends and these seem to have been confirmed by his latest shopping jaunt. The Daily Mail has recently quoted sources who assert that Prince Arthur would make a proposal 'any day' now.

The same insider told us: 'The way it's looking now, how lovey dovey they are,' people close to Arthur predict an early engagement. 'With Morgana marrying before the end of the year, Arthur feels pressured not to be outdone. He wants an heir in a year.”

But this doesn't mean that Arthur and his lovely flame aren't a very passionate and romantic couple.

“This girl,” says a friend of the Prince's, “is The One. Arthur has done nothing lately but talk about how special she is and about how much he's looking forward to getting engaged. His sister is about to get hitched,” the friend adds. “His best friend is too.” Our source is referring to Gwaine, Earl of Devon, who's reportedly marrying Elena Gawant. “So Arthur's got the marrying bug too.”

The source claims that by proposing the Prince wants to prove how serious he is about his and his secret flame's relationship. Kensington Palace is preparing itself for an engagement announcement and security teams are even accommodating it in their duty rotas.

While the nation's on tenterhooks to find out who its new future Queen will be, spokespeople for Kensington Palace have declined to comment.

 

****

 

Chandeliers sparkle from a thousand reflections, casting a warm glow over the wide marble staircase and hitting on the gilt furnishings. The walls are swathed with flower arrangements and hung with elaborate tapestries. Violin music floats on the air, muffling the sounds of laughter and conversation from the people thronging the salon. Waiters come and go, carrying silver trays of food. Arthur grabs a flute from one and steals onto the balcony overlooking the garden.

The night smells like sprinkled lawns and dew, like summer. The hedges rustle with a gentle breeze; tree canopies ripple and sigh.

Arthur takes a sip of his champagne.

“You didn't come to my birthday,” Morgana says, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Arthur turns around, takes in his sister. She's wearing a grey grown cinched at the waist with a tiny belt. Her hair is up and wisps of it curl around her face. On her wrist is a bracelet. It's made of leather, what look likes twine, and little glass charms. It clashes with her outfit and it's not something Morgana'd normally wear. Merlin, he guesses. She's not wearing Arthur's gift.

“I couldn't,” Arthur says, his eyes down. “I had a prior engagement with--”

“Don't give me that,” Morgana says, her words twanging into the sharp reproof only she is capable of. “I don't care if your engagement was with the Pope!”

“Morgana--” Arthur stands up straighter. “Some of us can't just party around and be as irresponsible as we wish.”

Morgana clacks her tongue. “And some of us refuse to grow heartless in the name of duty.”

Arthur breathes out as if he's been punched. It's not as if it doesn't feel like he has. “I'm not heartless!”

Morgana tosses her head. “Aren't you?”

“I couldn't come,” Arthur says, and at least he's not lying. Then he lashes out in the only way he can. Raising his eyebrow at the bracelet Morgana's wearing, he says, “I'm sure you had your friends around you.”

“Oh, yes.” She fingers the trinket fastened around her wrist. “At least he has a heart.”

Arthur knots his mouth against the tide of pain so his face won't crumple, so he won't show his soft underbelly to Morgana. “Well, what can I say, enjoy him.” He rips past her, ready to rejoin the party.

Morgana stops him with her words. “I would. But he's totally heartbroken.” She grabs him by the arm. “Did you say something to him, pass on one of Uther's threats?”

Arthur shakes free of her. “Morgana, if you'd kindly let me go...”

“You know,” she says, her eyes blackening. “Just because you gave up on Lancelot on Uther's say so, it doesn't mean that I'll do the same and give my friends the boot.”

Arthur's heart cramps into a familiar ache. It's Morgana, he tells himself. She definitely knows how to kick below the belt, how to best attack. “I'd rather you stopped airing opinions concerning things you know nothing about.” Lancelot is a nice memory Arthur doesn't want embittered. “Keep your venom to yourself.”

Morgana flinches. “I know you think it's my fault Mother died. What I didn't know was that you still hated me for it.”

Arthur feels bruised, as if he's just taken part in some kind of fight that ended in punches. His shoulders sag and he rattles out a breath. But he still can't mellow, can't smile and say everything's all right. She's got it all, after all. She can deal with some bitterness on his part. “I see Elena,” he says. “If you'll excuse me.”

He tears away without listening to what Morgana has to say. He intercepts Elena as she comes bouncing from one end of the salon to the other. Her momentum makes her trip. She splashes some champagne down the front of her pink dress and over her hand. After she's sucked her thumb into her mouth, she says, “Oh hi, Arrhur, I was on my way over to Gwaine.”

“I was wondering if I could have a dance first?”

Elena looks over Arthur's shoulder, confusion on her face. She mimes something to someone standing behind Arthur, nods, then says to Arthur, “Of course.”

 

***** 

 

The dart flies true and hits bullseye.

Arthur makes it past the door and claps. “Nice aim.”

Gwaine spits out the dart he's got between his teeth. “Arthur! Long time no see.”

“It's only been two weeks.”

Gwaine pumps his fist against his chest. “That was my heart talking. I missed you so.”

Arthur says, “Shut up, Gwaine.”

Gwaine draws his arm back and throws the dart; it lands quivering in a spot close to the bullseye. Face set in triumph, shoulders set back, Gwaine turns to him. “So why did you grace me with a visit today of all days?”

Arthur slips an envelope out of his jacket's pocket. “I came about this.”

“Oh, that,” Gwaine says, as if his decision wasn't game changing. “You're being my best man of course.”

“What!” Arthur says. “Gwaine, you can't get married at a moment's notice.”

Gwaine pulls him in by the shoulder, an arm around his neck. “Of course you can, once you fall in love.”

“Gwaine, you weren't even with her a scant few months ago,” Arthur tries to reason. “You don't know her that well. How can you even tell this is working out!”

“One,” Gwaine says, handing him a dart and wagging his eyebrows. “We've been seeing each other for a few months. Two, you can tell, believe me.”

"You're crazy.”" Just as Arthur's about to throw the dart, Gwaine knocks shoulders with him. The dart does hit the board, although nowhere near the bullseye.

“Double eight.” Gwaine rubs his chin, twists his mouth. Not bad.”

“Oh shut up, you degenerate wanker,” Arthur says. “You fouled my aim.”

“Who, me? Gwaine makes innocent eyes at him. He backs away to give Arthur room. “I did no such thing. Throw again.”

Arthur hits the right edge of the board.

“Better,” Gwaine says. He passes Arthur another dart. “Naturally, you'll be my best man.”

Arthur sighs. “Gwaine.”

“Aim.”

Arthur throws without looking at the board. “Gwaine, have you invited Morgana?”

“Bullseye.” Gwaine whistles. “Of course, I have. I wouldn't be so crass as not to, not after--” He flails his hands about. “Anyway, her invitation was one of the first to go out.”

“In which case.” Arthur rakes a hand through his hair, spins a notch to the side. “I'm afraid I won't be able to come.”

Gwaine chortles in his throat. “Oh, that's a good one.”

Arthur's brow crumples. “Gwaine,” he says, though he wishes he didn't have to, that he could get ahead without disappointing people left and right, “I'm not joking. I really can't come. Can't be your best man.”

“Arthur, it's not that big of a deal,” Gwaine says, giving him a slap on the shoulder. “You won't even have to organise the stag do. Just write a few lines for the best man's speech--”

“No, you don't understand.” Arthur gets that his reasons are hard to fathom, but he needs to explain in a way that will allow him to keep some things close to his chest. “I just can't come. It's... complicated, but you'll be happier without me there.”

Gwaine hikes a single eyebrow, but his expression is not sarcastic at all. “No, man, no.” His mouth tightens with clear hurt and disappointment. “You're my oldest friend, and right, maybe I'm not good at keeping mates. God knows, I'm wild and absent minded, and not the most trustworthy of fellows, but I thought you'd be there for me.”

Though he's been less than proud of himself lately and his dealings with Morgana do take the cake, Arthur has rarely felt like such a heel before. It's just that, as much as he loves Gwaine, he must think of his sister first. And he can't do that if he lets himself go to the wedding, a wedding she'll be at. A wedding she'll have an escort for. He'll face things, but can't yet. Not him, not them. “Gwaine, I want to, God knows I do, but--”

“It's because you think I'll let Elena down.” Gwaine nods to himself as if he's sure he's hit the nail on the head. “Look, I know my track record isn't the most spotless when it comes to hooking up.”

“Gwaine,” Arthur interjects.

“No, no.” Gwaine raises empty palms. “I get that. I get that my friends would think this is a silly caper. But I've the best of intentions and Ellie does too, and I think that's really the best anyone can do when it comes to--”

“It's not you, Gwaine, all right!” Arthur says with more oomph than was perhaps necessary.

Gwaine studies him close as though he's trying to spot the lie. “If it's not that--” His eyebrows twitch in thought. “--then what the fuck are you going on about?”

Arthur puts his thumb and forefinger to his eyelids to keep them shut. “Gwaine.” His chest rises, falls. He shakes his head. “Gwaine, let it go.”

Gwaine's eyes narrow. “You asked about whether Morgana'd be there.”

Arthur keeps his chin down. “Really, Gwaine, this is private.”

“So it's Morgana you're trying to avoid.” Gwaine's eyes shine with the pride of having come to the right conclusion. “I thought things were all right between you two.”

Arthur grimaces. There's no way he can explain what's wrong between them. He might start by saying that Morgana thinks Arthur hates her when that's not true. Or he might mention the Merlin fiasco. But, to be quite honest, the mere thought of exposing himself to that extent makes his stomach pinch and his heart go through rather painful motions. He rolls his shoulders and they crack as he does. “Look, we'll make up.” The damage isn't irreparable, not if Arthur keeps himself in check and doesn't betray her any more than he already has. Though he does it in thought every day, he thinks he can learn to move on, to forget Merlin, and do the right thing by her. “But I can't do this right now. There's still so much I--” resent her for, he ought to say, but can't without having Gwaine guess everything-- “I need to mull over.”

“Mull over?” Gwaine says, frowning deeply. “Oh, come on, you know Morgana. She says cutting things, but she really doesn't mean them.”

After a lifetime shared with his sister, Arthur's come to realise that Morgana's occasional venom is more often than not posturing, but that's not the problem here. “Gwaine, it's really complicated.”

“Whatever it is,” Gwaine says, “can't it rest until I'm married?”

Arthur rubs his forehead. “I--”

“Arthur, mate--” Gwaine folds his arms and hangs his head. “--all I know is that I'd like to have my friends at the wedding and I haven got as many true ones as you might think.”

Arthur knows he'll regret this, but he can't help saying, “All right, all right, I'll come.”

 

***** 

 

The lawn is festooned with the blossoms of roses and marigolds. Tents dot the gardens in clusters and solo. White paper lanterns bob on strands of wire while fairy lights creep around the trunks of trees. Waiters are busy carrying tables and chairs this way and that, weaving their way around both the stands and the tents.

Elena hooks her arm around Arthur's and walks him away from the path of a six-foot tall flower arrangement. “I almost can't believe it,” she says. “I'm going to get married in two days.”

Though it's probably bad form considering how deeply things are under way, Arthur asks, “Are you sure it's a step you want to take?”

Elena pats his hand. “I know it must have seemed all very sudden to you, but it isn't. Gwaine and I have been seeing each other these past few months, ever since the charity polo. I haven't gone crazy. I really think Gwaine's the one.”

The breeze mingles with the smell of freshly mowed grass and roses in bloom. Arthur inhales the scents ‘til he's a little bit drunk with them. “Then I wish you all the best.” He tangles their fingers together. “You both deserve it.”

Elena leans her head on his shoulder and walks him up the lawn and back towards the house. “You know, I'm terribly jealous of Gwaine, if he hadn't snatched you up for his best man, I'd have had you walk me up the aisle.”

“Isn't your brother--”

Arthur's words dwindle to silence when he spots Morgana, Merlin, and a third person walking towards them. Morgana looks as gorgeous as usual. Her clothing might be casual – ripped jeans, a slogan tee, and a slouchy cardigan, but her outfit is pulled together in a way that screams quality and stylist. Merlin looks the same too, with clothes haphazardly thrown together and hair that could use some combing – and not. His face has hollowed and displays lines that hadn't been there before and when he meets Arthur's gaze, he stiffens, drops his eyes.

Before he can catch it, Arthur's heart soars in his chest, and he has to rein his body in tight so as not to do anything stupid. That might range from turning around and walking away without a word to anyone, to him telling Merlin that he's sorry and that he wants a do over. Or, worse yet, to him announcing he's quite ready to fight his sister for Merlin.

He's wholly inside his head, fighting all of these urges, when Morgana makes the introductions. He misses Merlin's. He only notices the hug Elena gives him because he wishes he could do something like that too, smell the smell of him, and feel the bulk of him against his chest. He wants the freedom to do that too, but it's a freedom he can't have, not with how things have shaped themselves. After all, he met Merlin second and only because of his sister, and Morgana must love him. Christ, he knew coming here was a mistake and now he's so deep in, he's not sure he can actually survive the weekend and get to Sunday in one piece.

“And this is Morgause,” Morgana says to Elena. “My other plus one.”

“Oh, hello, Morgause.” Elena pumps her hand up and down in a vigorous shake that leaves Morgause unimpressed. Though Morgause probably wants none of it, Elena hugs her too. “Such a pleasure to have you here at my wedding.”

Morgause's eyes go small, and she makes no attempt to smile at all, but she says, “delighted to be here. Congratulations.”

“Why don't I show you your rooms?” Elena says. “I'm sure you're tired from driving all the way here.”

They walk back up to the main building in a group. Heart banging in his chest, Arthur lets himself fall behind, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. Once the others are past the French windows, Merlin turns around and fills the passageway. “Arthur,” he says, eyes brimming wetly, “do you have a moment?”

Merlin's gaze opens wounds in his chest, Arthur didn't know were there at all. It makes his throat sting like nettles and his eyes film. He wants to reach out. He wants to cup Merlin's face and kiss his mouth raw on its angles.

But he can't. He mustn't. He's got a sister to think of. Arthur swallows, looks away, so he's not tempted. He's fooling himself. He probably still is, but glancing elsewhere helps him stay focused on keeping himself in check. “I've got to go change. I can't stay.”

“Arthur, please,” Merlin says, as he watches Arthur push past him. “I thought we were friends.”

Arthur's throat is too thick for many words. So he just says, “I don't intend to be late for dinner.”

 

***** 

 

Dinner takes place inside in the great dining room which contains a marble fireplace topped by a portrait of one of Gwaine's ancestors.

The group gathered around the table is relatively small, consisting as it does of Gwaine, his sister, the three Gs – Gwaine's uni mates called Gareth, Gwalchmei and Gaehris –, who are thick as thieves – Elena, her brother and her maids of honour. The rest of the wedding party will arrive on the following day or only attend the church ceremony.

The guests all gather around the same long table. In his attempt to steer clear of Merlin, Arthur ends up sitting between Gwalchmei, the loudest of Gwaine's pals, who starts pouring wine into his glass even before the appetisers are served, and the Morgause girl Morgana brought along. While she's mostly silent, glares a lot, and otherwise doesn't converse much, Gwalchmei is as obnoxious as it comes.

“Hey, Penda,” he says, insiting on using that silly old nickname, “want some of the good stuff?”

“No, thank you,” Arthur says, not wanting to indulge. With both Merlin and Morgana there he needs to be on his toes tonight.

“As dutiful and ascetic as always,” says Gwalchmei.

Gwaine snorts. “And Gwalchmei is as much of a libertine as always.”

Gwalchmei drains his glass and says, “Fuck off, Gwaine.”

The conversation gets more general again though it happens in pockets. The three Gs rib each other about their latest exploits as well as old ones going back to their uni days. From time to time they try and reel Arthur in, but with little success. Despite them having been in the same circle, they were never that close. They've always known of each other's deeds via common friends but never been part of them. Elena's friends interact only with each other; at least when one of the three Gs aren't trying to hit on them. The girls respond to these advances with mixed giggles and shrugs.

Morgana goes from joking with Gwaine to speaking low to Morgause and Merlin. Arthur tries not to look, not to notice the easy smiles Merlin gives Morgana, smiles he wishes were entirely for him. He tries to ignore the flithy double entendres that Morgana sends Merlin's way and that Gwaine toasts her on. Some are general enough they could have been addressed to anybody but with the tabloid spreads dedicated to the subject of Merlin it's easy to guess it's him she's directing them at.

Morgana has no discretion whatsoever, so much so even Gwalchmei picks up upon it.

“Morgana,” he says, slurring from the wine he's already drunk. “We already know that twink over there --” He raises his glass at Merlin, “--is your fucktoy, but we're all wondering--” Gwalchmei's gaze encompasses the diners – “I'm sure we're all raring to know who that gorgeous woman at your side is. I mean she's probably your--”

Arthur slams a fist on the table. “First of all his name is Merlin and we'd all appreciate it if you used it rather than thinly veiled insults. Do it again and we're having a talk outside.”

Gwalchmei pushes his chair back and his chest out. “You want to do that. Fine.” He puts out his fists as though he's taking part in a boxing match, working his stance albeit drunkely.

Instead of helping Arthur out on this one, Morgana simply stares at him as if Arthur's the one to have done something outrageously wrong.

As for Merlin he's goggling at Arthur too. There's a certain stiffness to his mouth that's at odds with his attitude earlier today and a wideness to his eyes that speaks of surprise. It hardens when he says, “I can take care of myself, thank you, Arthur.”

“No problem. I can stand up against you too,” Gwalchmei says, pivoting he's aiming his fists at Merlin.

“Nobody will do any such thing,” Elena says, getting a nod from Gwaine. “We're all here to celebrate together, and if we can't do that and be friends, then I don't see what's the point.”

Gareth pulls Gwalchmei down by the jacket and says, “You've had enough, my friend.”

“But--”

“Enough--” Gareth sends Elena and Gwaine a sheepish look. “We're insulting our kind hosts.”

With a pout and a grunt Gwalchmei sink into his chair.

“Gwalchmei apologises,” Gareth says for him.

“No, I don't,”Gwlachmei huffs. “I'm not apoligising to that vulgar, common...”

“Shut up, berk,” Gareth says. “My friend apologises to all.”

His mouth a wry line, Gwaine says, “Apologies accepted.”

The general mood at table improves. While Gwalchmei keeps on scowling and saying things into his glass that would probably please no one, it's like everybody has concertedly decided not to take notice. Arthur's hackles, though, stay up. It's partly because of Gwalchmei, partly because he's aware of Morgana's eyes on him. They're practically boring holes into his skull.

He does his level best to ignore her, but it's not easy. Her eyebrows keep doing this strange dance and her gaze deepens every time it falls on him. It happens rather a lot. Before dessert gets brought in, Arthur raises to his feet and says, “Gwaine, Elena, I'm sorry. I have a rather insistent headache. I'll call it a night.”

“But of course,” Elena says, “have sweet dreams, Arthur.”

“Give us a shout if you keel over on the way upstairs,” Gwaine says, but there's concern in his eyes, concern of the kind Arthur's never seen there before. Perhaps Gwaine has guessed something's up between Arthur and Morgana because his gaze swivels between the two. He covers it up – rather badly, by adding, “We won't be able to do anything about it but we swear to ring 999.”

“It won't come to that.” Arthur leaves his napkin on the table. “I wish a good night to you all.”

In his room, Arthur strips for the night, until he's got only his boxers on. His clothes he leaves on on an armchair. He doesn't fold them. He doesn't even give a thought to how they'll crease. Tonight he doesn't give a shit about rumpled clothing. The carpet tickling his soles, he pads his room barefoot. He opens the bottle of wine sitting on his desk and sits at the edge of the bed. At first he makes a pretence of pouring the wine into his glass. It's good enough, it ought to be sipped. But after his second hastily drunk glass Arthur just takes big draughts of it directly from the bottle.

 

***** 

 

He wakes to a pounding headache that feels like the entire drums section of a jazz orchestra is pounding on his skull. His mouth tastes like dung, dry, his breath stale. His muscles are so sore he might as well have spent the night lifting weights. Slowly, he lifts his hands to his sore head, but that doesn't help much. The devil is still dancing a tango in there. He takes a shower, brushes his teeth, and starts feeling a little more human. He's buttoning his shirt up, enjoying the crispness of the cotton, when he walks to the window.

He has a view of the back lawn, the pool, the tennis court, the tops of trees swaying in the breeze. But the sight that arrests him has nothing to do with the natural world. Morgana and Morgause are lounging poolside. Morgana is lying on a sunbed, hair wet, skin shiny with water. Morgause is sitting on the edge of hers, her body angled at Morgana. She puts something down, something that sparkles and might have been a glass, and leans over. Morgana does as well and their heads converge. They're kissing, Morgana's hand on Morgause's hip, Morgause's between them. It doesn't take a genius to guess what's going on.

Arthur steps back as if burned, lets the curtains fall heavily back into place. His face goes hot at the cheeks and temples in one scalding flash. He grinds his teeth. He throws his hands up in the air and kicks at the desk. His toe takes to throbbing but that's a good distraction from the barrage of thoughts and feelings coming at him.

There's quite a lot of them and more than a choice few scare him. He doesn't want to stay put and analyse them though because if he does he knows he won't like the picture they will paint of him.

He finishes dressing quickly and without an eye for what he's putting on. Heart slamming in his chest, he takes the stairs down two at a time. He finds Morgana in the back drawing room, the one that gives onto the patio and pool. Her hair is damp, but her skin is dry now. She's wearing the top of her bikini and has a towel around her waist. Another towel is slung over her shoulder. Her hand is in Morgause's.

“We need to talk,” Arthur says, angry at the easiness with with Morgana gads about.

Morgana widens her eyes at him, laughs her derisive laugh. “What now? Can't it wait ‘til I'm dry?”

“Now, Morgana.” Arthur makes himself sound like his father and though it's the wrong way to approach Morgana – the best method to actually guarantee she'll baulk – he can't resist. He wants to excercise some authority over her, make her see that she can't act just like she wants, with others accepting her tantrums all the time. Rebellion is one thing, hurting people, on the other hand...“It's serious.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Arthur.” Morgana scoffs, drops Morgause's hand, attempts to brush past him. “This will have to wait.”

Arthur clamps his hand around her arm. “No. Not until you do right by Merlin.” He does her the courtesy of speaking low, though she doesn't deserve it in the least. “You're not waltzing out of this as if nothing had happened.”

Morgana's eyes flash. With a light wrench, she breaks free of his hold. She tilts her head back and to the side. “I have no idea what you're talking about, but whatever it is it doesn't give you the right to act like this.”

“So I should stand by and watch while you hurt other people?” Arthur asks, his words coming fast and clipped. “Good people who don't deserve it in the least?”

“You've gone mad.” Morgana tosses her head back. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't detain me any longer.” She takes Morgause's hand again and sweeps past him.

“You know, Morgana, acting like a rebel is one thing.” Arthur won't let her get away with this and if words can stop her, make her see the light, he'll speak them. He'll try and try and try ‘til she puts this right and stops hurting Merlin. “Cheating is quite another.”

“Morgause,” Morgana says, turning her head to look at her companion, “could you please leave us alone for this.”

Morgause looks from Morgana to Arthur then back. Given the sceptical twist of her mouth, it's clear that she's doubting the wisdom of Morgana's request. Arthur only refrains from saying something highly scathing because Morgana speaks before him. “I've got this, Morgause.”

Before making the door, Morgause scowls at him, though at last she goes.

Morgana wheels round. “You complete and utter fuckwit. You great imbecile.”

Arthur works his teeth together. “Morgana, if you'd spare me the insults--”

“Oh no.” Morgana's eyes flash. “I won't. You deserve a few more choice ones actually.”

Arthur takes a bounding step forward, air blowing through his mouth. “Oh that's rich,” he says, not understanding how Morgana can be so damnably selfish. “You take and take. You hurt people left right and centre because being a princess is too hard and taking up a few duties is apparently unacceptable, but you don't give a damn about how hard you make it for others.”

“And who would those others be?” Morgana asks, raising her eyebrow.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, sure he'll stumble over the name, or say it too breathlessly. But he has to go on; he has to make Morgana see the error of her ways so Merlin can be happy. “He's the one you're hurting here and he doesn't deserve it at all.” He actually can't understand how Morgana doesn't get that. Being with him, she must know how special he is. How brilliant. She ought to be able to curb her ways if only for him, the blessing Merlin is. “He's the good sort, loving. He really gives to people and there's no way this won't cut him deep.”

“You're still harping on the cheating, I see.” Morgana clucks her tongue, crosses her arms.

“And you take it so lightly.” Arthur strains his fingers in his clenched fists. “How can you?”

Morgana exhales. “And that's what you think of me?”

Arthur wishes he could say he doesn't, but he saw all of that go down with his own eyes. And while he surely can think of a thousand reasons why someone may be led to cheat, he can't for the life of him get how you may do it to Merlin. “I don't want to but all the evidence points that way.”

“Evidence.” Morgana laughs.

“I saw you with Morgause earlier.” Arthur experiences distaste at his own words. “I have eyes and can tell what happened.”

“You understand nothing.”

“Do I?” Arthur says, feeling his face drain of heat. He goes as cold as the grave. “I understand you've got something quite precious but that you treat it so lightly. I understand that you always put yourself first and others second. I understand that you wronged Merlin--”

“Do you know what I think?” Morgana clenches her jaws. “I think that you're taking this all to heart because you have a stake in this.”

Arthur's heart stills in his chest, missing a couple of heartbeats before its rhythm resumes. “I--” he has no words to counter Morgana's statement with because it's true. “I--”

She stabs a finger at his chest. “You're acting out because you're wounded and jealous and bitter--”

Arthur's lips stretch back across his teeth in a bitter grimace. “And you're out of line with Merlin.”

“--And you're wounded, jealous and bitter because you want Merlin for yourself.”

Arthur breathes hard through his nose, takes a tottering stop back. Before he can regroup and make her rethink her conclusions – the optimal option would be for her to completely erarse that thought from her mind -- Morgana starts on him again.

“You think I haven't noticed?” she asks, tipping her head to the side. “The way you rushed in to protect his honour yesterday was quite telling...”

“What Gwalchmei said was deplorable.” Arthur will stand by his defence of Merlin. He likes to think that he would have regardless. “I simply called him out on it.”

“Nonsense.” It's a snap of a word. “You acted that way because it's Merlin. Otherwise you wouldn't have made a scene.”

“I like to think I know how to stand up for the right causes.” As eldest son Arthur may have had to toe the line more than Morgana, but he isn't a slave to it. “And Merlin--”

Morgana talks right over him. “And you know what, that's all right. Merlin and I have an agreement We're friends with benefits. What I won't abide is the tone you're taking with me.”

Arthur's brows draw together. “What did you say?”

“That I won't accept your behaviour,” Morgana says. “I won't take it. I understand you're probably twisting yourself up in knots in fear you're finally feeling something you can't control.” She says that with gusto, making the words ring out obnoxiously. “But I'm not going to be your punching bag.”

“Not that.” Arthur swipes at the air with his hands. “The other thing.”

Morgana chortles, her eyes dancing with glee. “Don't tell me. You thought Merlin and I would swan up an aisle, produce five or six kids and live happily ever after in a nice castle.”

“No-- I--” Arthur is no idiot. He understands how complicated things are. With father's opposition so strongly in place, Morgana wouldn't have had a fairy tale wedding, but he'd truly believed... “You're not exclusive?”

“No, you twat!” Morgana punches him in the arm. Hard. “Merlin knows about Morgause. He knows about Mordred and he knows about--”

Arthur raises his empty hand. “But I don't need to.”

“I told him fair and square on our first...” She smirks. “... morning after that I wouldn't stand for a traditional relationship. No marriage. No future together. We're friends, who have sex from time to time, and there hasn't been much of that lately because Morgause's in the balance and well, I suppose, Merlin must be fantasising about you. What's strange is that Merlin got what kind of relationship I wanted without even knowing me that well, while you, someone related to me, have leapt to the wrong conclusion. I wonder why that is.”

Arthur can't answer that question. His thoughts are churning too fast for that, his heart thumping too hard. His stomach falls away from his head. He isn't even listening to much of what Morgana's saying anymore because he's too busy trying to make sense of what's going on with him.

Morgana clicks her fingers in front of Arthur's face. “So what are you going to do?”

“Um?” Arthur's not quite sure he's processing Morgana's words right. “What?”

Morgana releases a belaboured sigh. “What are you going to do about Merlin?”

There are only two options that make sense to Arthur. One entails sticking to his guns, being the person he's always been. The other fans blood to his head and makes his legs feel shaky. It's also the only one he wants to contemplate right now. “I, um, am extremely sorry for implying you...” He flails his hands. “...were a cheater. I apologise, and will do so again at length later, but right now, I've got to go.”

Morgana calls after him. “Going to declare your feelings, Arthur, are you? I want the byplay!”

 

**** 

 

The door to Merlin's room is open. Arthur still knocks but when no answer comes, he steps inside. The space is cluttered with Merlin's things. Clothes are strewn on the bed and armchairs. The pillows have been placed at the end of the bed rather than the head and on the floor two open books lie. Of Merlin, however, there's no trace.

Arthur races back downstairs, finds Gwaine and Elena in one of the drawing rooms. She's sitting sideways in his lap and they both have mugs in their hands. “Have you any idea where Merlin's gone?”

Elena looks up. “Merlin? Why?”

Arthur has no answer for that, none that he can share at least. “I just need to find him.”

“He asked me if he could take a boat out on the lake,” Gwaine says. “So I suppose he went there.”

Arthur's already skidding out of the room, when he calls out, “thanks!..”

The sun shines placidly on the empty lake, gilding the water a soft yellow, a solitary thicket crowning it. Little ducks paddle around in the water at the end of the jetty, disappearing under it from time to time. Two boats bob by it but the anchorage for a third lies empty. A dinghy, however, is out on the lake.

Arthur runs down the length of the jetty, cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Merlin!” He waves his hands up in the air. “Row back here, Merlin. Come on!”

Merlin sits up. The oars lift but the boat only keeps floating.

“Merlin!”

The oars fend the water this time and the dinghy slowly nears the jetty. When it's close, Merlin stands, rocking the boat. “What's going on?” he asks, stooping for the rope.

“I need to talk to you,” Arthur says, though, given his current outburst, that seems rather obvious. “I was mistaken. I was slow on the uptake, but if there is a chance...”

Merlin's made a hook of the rope and is trying to tie it around the mooring ring, but at Arthur's words he loses hold of it. “What?”

“Obviously, I don't know where you stand and perhaps you're cross with me.” Arthur thinks Merlin has plenty of reasons to be. “But I need to say it.”

Merlin's eyebrows pull together. “What, are we talking about what went down yesterday at dinner?”

“No!” Arthur shakes his head. “No, though I apologise if I came across as patronising to you.” He'd just wanted Gwalchmei to stop being rude to Merlin, who's worth ten of those puffed up aristocrats. But that's not the point, is it? “What I came out here to tell you is that--” Arthur sucks in a bracing breath and takes the plunge. “That I love you.”

Merlin blinks several times. “What?”

Arthur understands he's committed himself big time, that the words he said have tremendous scope, but he's all right with that. He wants to take that plunge. “You heard me. I stand by it.”

“But you...” Merlin's mouth slowly opens and he makes air-fending gestures with his hands. “I thought you didn't... I thought you were angry at me for kissing you that one time.”

Arthur presses the heel of his hand against his forehead and shakes his head. “God no!” He drops his hand and straightens, makes sure his gaze is meeting Merlin's when he says, “If I gave off signs of anger, it was at myself. I thought I was overstepping, that I was being disloyal to my sister. I thought you were about to marry her.”

“Marry!” Merlin's forehead gets scored with deep puzzlement wrinkles. “How did you even get that idea?”

“The papers were full of it!”

“And you believe those since when?” Merlin asks. “I mean even I know those are so out there, they're science fiction.”

“You were going out with her though.” Arthur's seen proof positive in the shape of the pictures his father provided. “That wasn't a fiction.”

“Well, no.” Merlin continues to stare at Arthur in a rather wide-eyed fashion. “But have you met Morgana?”

While Morgana does have a wild streak, that doesn't mean nothing could ever change it. But that's not even it. “I just thought that it would be different with you, that anyone in their right minds would...” He moistens his lips before making the most absurd clean breast of his adult life. “Rush at the chance to... be with you.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, stepping onto the gunwale and nearly overturning the boat. “Christ, Arthur.”

Arthur dashes forward and grabs Merlin by the arm so he can steady him. Despite the brisk breeze, Merlin's skin oozes warmth and Arthur can think of nothing but it for long moments. Then his brain starts processing the situation again and he understands that this is the time for him to make the final leap. “I just...” The lining of Arthur's stomach gives way as he prepares to ask his next question. “I just need to know if you love her.”

“I do,” Merlin says.

Arthur drops his hand, steps back, moistens his lips in preparation for the explanation he knows he owes Merlin. “I--”

“No.” The boat lurches sideways as Merlin makes another attempt at moving. He puts his hands out, then when he's recovered some balance, he adds, “of course I love her. Or I wouldn't--” He flushes in splotches that ought to look unattractive but are anything but to Arthur “--I wouldn't have slept-”

“I don't need to know that.” The jetty rumbles under Arthur's weight. “Really, I don't.”

“I was saying,” Merlin says, “that I wouldn't have been with her if I didn't love her at all, I'm just not geared like that, but I'm not in love with her.”

That shouldn't give Arthur hope. It shouldn't make him happy. But the selfish part of him certainly rejoices. He takes a step forward and another and another. “And is there any chance you might feel that for me one day?”

“Yes.” The light in Merlin's eyes is ten times brighter than the sun. “More than a fair chance. In fact I'm almost all the way there.”

Arthur's heart’s pulsing so hard he might soon need a resuscitation attempt. He treads forward and puts his foot on the gunwale. “And what would need to happen for you to get all the way there?” It’s so unsubtle a question, Arthur might as well have asked for a declaration of intent.

Merlin, however, takes it in stride. He grins and says, “We might pick up where we left off...”

Arthur jumps into the boat, landing an inch away from Merlin and causing the vessel to rock this way and that. When he's steady, he cocks his head and asks, “And where was that?”

“As I recall it,” Merlin says, inching forwards and placing a hand on Arthur's hip, “we were kissing when you tore off at speed, making me think I was either a nightmare kisser or that you hated me.”

“No, none of that.” Arthur dives forwards, pecks Merlin on the corner of his mouth. As he waits for a reaction, he holds his breath. Somehow that causes his heart to race faster and he goes dizzy, weak at the knees. When Merlin turns his head to fit their mouths together, Arthur's body floods with a thrill of excitement. Merlin gives him a closed-mouth, firm kiss on the lips that lasts only a beat, but it's enough to chase a smile onto Arthur's face. “The truth is it if had lasted a moment more, I would have betrayed my sister and I couldn't let myself do that.”

Merlin's gaze shifts to tenderness and the lines of his face lift. “That's how you go and do it, make me love you-- That honour of yours.”

Something about the way Merlin's looking at him – the softness of it – makes Arthur want to dare, to stake everything on the next moment. He strains for another kiss, one that's more lingering, lips catching on lips. Merlin draws back a notch as if he's reconsidered the wisdom of what they're doing, but then he smiles and moves forward and touches lips with him again. This time it's an open mouthed-kiss they're in for, lips supple and sticky when they rub together, the tips of their tongues touching. The boat swings sideways from under them, close to capsizing. So he can balance himself, Merlin places his hands on Arthur's midriff. In spite of the danger, he doesn't stop kissing Arthur.

He licks into his mouth, nips at its corners, sucks on his lips and it's charged and passionate but there's an edge of easiness to it that's entirely Merlin. No posturing, no feigning coolness, there's just a joy to it all that Arthur's rarely known, and most certainly never when getting laid.

By now Arthur's heart is beating in an alarming, escalating pitter-patter and his thoughts are tumbling all over themselves. Foremost is the notion that he needs to prolong this, that he needs to have more of Merlin, that he must find a way to do this forever.

In a bid to do some of that now, Arthur draws him in against his body, and pulls his arms around him, but that upsets their precarious balance.

The boat rocks and Arthur stumbles forward, knocking Merlin down flat into the bottom of the dinghy. Arthur lands on top of Merlin and Merlin makes a little noise that's half pain and half laughter. Arthur tries to find his hands so he can move off him, but Merlin hooks a leg around his and says, “No, stay.”

A smile breaks onto Arthur's face. “So you want me to stay put?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, and if Arthur's not mistaken his breath is coming out a notch faster than usual. “Yes. I do.”

Merlin leans up for a kiss and his lips are plush and his tongue moves soft in Arthur's mouth. It's perfect, the kind of kiss Arthur's wished for for a long time, the kind that sparks sensation at the base of his spine and takes his breath.

When they break apart, Arthur touches Merlin's face with his hand splayed wide, rubs the hair on Merlin's forearm against the grain, runs his thumb along the length of his Adam's apple, from base to top. He learns Merlin by touch, small ones that teach him how Merlin moves, how he reacts. With that Merlin goes a little mellow in the body, his breath blustery now.

Arthur kisses Merlin's jawline, his chin, mouths at Merlin's upper lip, sucks it between his. Merlin palms his nape, kneads it, pulls him close. The kiss that follows is deep and breathless. It's a long, heavy, kiss that sends Arthur's senses reeling. It makes him more aware of the position they're in, of lying on top of Merlin, of the density of him. He rocks forward, runs his hand up Merlin's side, twines his fingers in Merlin's hair and tilts his head at a different angle.

In a pause between kisses, Merlin breathlessly asks, “Do you find it weird?”

Arthur goes a bit cross-eyed and frowns at Merlin. “What?”

“Do you find it weird,” Merlin says again, “me having been with your sister and then now...” His eyebrows go up. “You.”

Perhaps Arthur should find it weird. Perhaps he should be thinking of how he's kissing lips his sister has kissed, of how he's going to have sex with a man she's been intimate with, how he's going to walk in her footsteps. And that should perhaps make him pause, but he really can't. He wants Merlin with everything he's got in him. It's like a low ache blooming in some indecipherable place inside him and he can't but have it on his mind. “No, Merlin, I don't.”

“Are you su--” The words are smothered on Arthur's lips.

Skimming his mouth down Merlin's throat, Arthur opens the buttons on Merlin's shirt. His skin is soft, fresh from a shave, Merlin's Adam's apple fluttering under Arthur's lips. Arthur drags them down his chest in a slow pattern that's a burn of flesh on flesh. When Arthur's palm swipes his bare flank, Merlin sucks in a breath and when he brushes at his nipple with his thumb, Merlin hisses. Arthur roams his lips along the cut of Merlin's muscles and lower down his belly. Merlin's body rises under Arthur. His muscles tighten, harden. His breath shivers out of him.

Nosing at the trail of hair that leads downwards from Merlin's belly, Arthur unbuttons Merlin's jeans with clumsy fingers. The brass buttons are hard to cajole, unyielding. When they do give, Merlin moves, lifts up and Arthur pulls his jeans down, past his hips. Arthur mouths at the ridge of his cock then, laving the cotton of his briefs wet, the fabric becoming semi-transparent, shaping itself around Merlin. With his palm, Arthur fondles Merlin's bulge, stroking up and down, mouthing at the tip of Merlin's prick the moment it pokes out from under the line of his underwear.

At that Merlin makes a noise, a low grunt that stems from somewhere deep in his chest.

Arthur looks up. He needs some kind of direction, to know that what he's doing is fine. Merlin is staring at him with wide pupils and a slackened mouth. It seems to Arthur that he likes what Arthur's up to. He gets some vocal confirmation of this, when Merlin whines, “You can't leave me like this!”

“No? And here I was thinking I'd tease you and leave you high and dry,” Arthur says, squeezing Merlin in his palm, flexing his wrist down the length of him, putting pressure under the crown.

“Oh, here I was thinking I'd have sex with you.” Merlin's eyes spark with challenge though his delivery is hoarse.

After yanking his jeans and underwear lower down, Arthur takes Merlin in his mouth, slowly, running his tongue along and around the crown, then sucking him right in, enclosing him to mid-length. Merlin groans deeply. His hands go to Arthur's head, cradling it, his fingers carding through his hair. They pull tight when Arthur uses his tongue or sucks around him. That little reaction puts a burn to Arthur's heart, makes his stomach tighten with excitement, with the knowledge that he's doing something to Merlin, getting a rise out of him.

On a pattern made of inching forward and drawing back in measured increments, Arthur works most of Merlin in his mouth. When he gets tears in his eyes, Arthur backs off, keeping only the head between his lips. His tongue probes the flesh around it, searches the slit. Then he goes for it again, taking Merlin's cock as deeply as he can.

His hands move along the lines of Merlin's body, one resting at his hip, the other at the base of his cock, holding him up. He sucks and nurses him in his mouth, licks at the folds of skin, goes down on him until all he can taste and smell is the heavy, lingering musk of him. When his gag reflex takes hold, Arthur lets up again. But that doesn't mean he's willing to stop. He wants Merlin to come and he wants him to do so in his mouth. The idea of it thrills him, makes his blood go to his face.

Before he sets off to do that, Arthur takes a moment. He lets Merlin slip from his mouth, takes a few breaths, nudges his face against Merlin's thigh and puts kisses there. When he brushes his lips against softer, paler flesh, Merlin moans and Arthur goes back to his cock. He suckles at his slit, tongues it ‘til it's moist with Merlin's pre-come and his own spit. He nibbles and sucks on the foreskin.

Arching off the floor of the boat, making it rock and creak as he moves, Merlin comes on Arthur's tongue in thick ropey filaments. Arthur swallows, turns to spit some of it out. Merlin cups himself but come leaks through his fingers and smears Arthur's lips and chin all the same. Merlin pulls him up by the elbow, lays Arthur by his side, and licks Arthur's mouth clean with a kiss.

He draws back panting, then he dives back in, his mouth connecting with Arthur's, lips meeting fast, until Arthur's breathing hard through his nostrils and rocking his hips against the thigh Merlin slips between his.

It's electrifying. Arthur's heart hurts for beating so fast. His thoughts thin and there's nothing but Merlin. Merlin and his smell deep in Arthur's nostrils. Merlin and the softness of his lips. Merlin and the warmth of him.

When Arthur starts to undo his trousers with clumsy hands that tremble from riding a knife's edge of pleasure, Merlin's bats them away and takes over. He reaches in and wraps his palm around Arthur's prick, stroking the curve of it, rubbing it fast. At that, Arthur bites down a moan; his eyelids go down to half-mast. He wants to kiss Merlin, hold him to him, slide his hands under the flaps of his shirt, but he can't do anything other than hitch his hips into his touch. Heats spreads in his belly and moves outwards, licking at the base of his spine, tightening his muscles.

His orgasm takes time to build and then it just takes over. He starts spilling and moans, hushed and then louder. He tries to check it, not to let Merlin hear how he's undoing him, but sound still ripples out of him together with a fast series of little wet gasps. He continues to buck into Merlin's hand even when he's stopped coming, his hips moving in an instinctive staccato.

When he's done, Merlin soothes him with kisses he lays all over his face, with hands he skims under his shirt, with a whole body embrace that Arthur feels from head to foot. When Arthur's breathing slows, Merlin tells him, “I feel a bit dirty.”

“I hope you feel very dirty,” Arthur says, kissing Merlin's lips until they soften into a smile.

“Idiot,” Merlin says, “I mean my hands are sticky and I feel like I need a wash.”

“Well.” Arthur makes big eyes at Merlin. “We're on a boat.”

The skin draws up around Merlin's eyes, so they become slits with multiple lines shooting out around them. He makes a low, burring sound, then says, “You know, that's not a bad idea.”

“I never have bad ideas.”

Merlin chuckles, goes onto his knees, crawls to the gunwale then leans over and dips his hands in the shallows.

Missing the body contact, the warmth of Merlin tangled together with him, Arthur gropes his way forwards, kneels behind Merlin, puts his open lips to his nape, right on the last notch of his spine.

Merlin laughs, says, “Ticklish.”

“You weren't a short while ago,” Arthur says, wrapping his arms around him.

“That's because...” Merlin's ribcage shakes with laughter. “That's because you weren't kissing that spot.”

“So it's this spot?” Arthur says, skating his tongue across it, licking the salt and sweat off Merlin's skin. “This very spot?”

Merlin laughs out loud now, elbows him, says, “Yes, yes, that's it.”

“Ouch,” Arthur says, though he isn't hurt at all. “That pointy elbow of yours.”

“Those roving lips of yours.”

Arthur kisses a different spot but makes sure to skim his lips along the one that makes Merlin shake with laughter. Merlin huffs, braces against the gunwale, attempts to buck him off. In the attempt he rocks the boat so it tilts. Arthur enters the water head first. He's barely surfaced, spluttering and pushing his hair out of his eyes, when Merlin re-emerges too.

He looks ridiculous. He's lost his shirt and his hair is sticking to his skull like a bright pelt, his fringe brushed thickly forward. Water's dripping from his earlobes and from the very end of his nose. When he realises Arthur's looking, he blushes fiercely, fans his eyelids down. “Sorry,” he says, “I didn't mean to capsize us.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, trying to sound put upon when he just wants to laugh. “You should have known that brisk movements and boats don't go together.”

Merlin rakes his hair away from his forehead, spits water. “Well, I'm not a fancy arse sailor.”

“No.” Arthur's lips stretch outward. “We may agree on that.”

They smile at each other until Arthur shivers and Merlin's face crumbles.

“I've lost my shirt and shoe,” Merlin says. “Help me find them.”

They plumb the shallows for ten minutes or so, arms out, legs bent. From time to time they stop for a giggle, or for a kiss, or to rib each other about the absurdity of the situation. When Arthur gets the shivers, Merlin gives him hugs and they wrap their arms around each other. They neck and kiss, opening each other's mouths with their tongues ‘til they can't continue anymore. At length, they retrieve Merlin's stuff and make it back to the jetty. By then they're both trembling because, although the day's warm, the sun's starting its descent.

“So back to the house?” Merlin asks, wringing water out of his shirt and slinging the wet thing over his shoulder. “I think we need to change.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, heaving himself onto the jetty. “We probably should.”

Merlin shakes his head when Arthur offers him a head up, and climbs after him. They share a smile then Merlin rubs his arms for warmth and says, “I need to dry up.”

“Yeah.”

They run up to the house like two mad hares, dripping lake water and cackling like loons. Arthur's skin knits into goose bumps, but that sets him off even more. His lungs expand and lift and he feels as light as a feather. He can't help himself. During the last stretch of the lawn climb, they hold hands. Because they're scarcely fit to be seen, Merlin missing clothing pieces, Arthur scarcely better off, they sneak in by the back French doors, leaving puddles in their wake.

Arthur tugs Merlin upstairs by the hand. When they come upon the second floor landing, Arthur whirls round and says, “come into my room.”

“Yes.” Merlin squeezes his palm, and that sends heat in Arthur's cold body. “Yes.”

They dance into Arthur's bedroom, holding each other by the hips as they do. Arthur has a second to look Merlin in the eyes, see them glint, before Merlin touches lips with him. It's soft and light, his mouth gentle against his. At the same time, there's no hesitance to it either. It's a tender touch, but one given with nothing held back. It's as if Merlin's sure of what he's doing and how he's doing it and of Arthur too. He kisses like he has this; like he has an instinct for Arthur that will always work true. His lips are cool from the lake, the inside of his mouth is hot and he tastes like all of Arthur’s dreams come true.

Moved, Arthur digs his fingers in Merlin's waist. They both shake, their skin rough with goose flesh. Arthur says, “Drying up is in order.”

“And here I was trying to play it cool.” Merlin dimples. “Quite literally.”

Arthur gets a stack of thick towels from the adjoining bathroom, grabs two ends of one and towels Merlin's hair dry.

“I feel like a dog,” Merlin says, his eyes slitting in lazy pleasure. “A pampered poodle perhaps.”

“Nah, more like a shaggy sheepdog.”

“Classist.”

They dry each other with the towels, in large swipes and later swift dabs. Then they shed their still damp clothing, until they're both naked and a flush dusts both their chests. They come together for a deep open mouthed kiss, hands moving in strokes down their backs.

Arthur lays Merlin down on the bed, climbs on top. He gets the shivers when their bodies touch and smiles in Merlin's face when he reacts in the same way down to the loopy facial expression.

When Merlin runs his hands up his arms, Arthur leans down and nuzzles Merlin’s jaw. He laces kisses under it then skims his lips lower.

With a sigh, Merlin bares his throat, and Arthur can't stop himself from scoring his mouth down the length of it, from gently sucking at his skin. Once he's skimmed them all the way down to the base, nosing the hollow, he drags his lips back up to the underside of Merlin's jaw, putting damp kisses to it.

Merlin places his hands at Arthur's hips, his palms hot, his grip tight. He thrusts his hips up into Arthur, his breath getting heavy. Arthur grinds down himself, his hips snapping forward quite involuntarily. All the while he's giving Merlin deep and tangled kisses, mouths sticking together, catching, getting fat from friction, tongues sliding in and out of each other's mouths.

The easy slide, the give and take, is awaking a slow burn inside him, making his head spin, the blood rush away from it. It feels like he's upside down, like he's floating, and all the while he's sinking in the moment, into Merlin.

Though he's getting hard again, he doesn't want to go quick. He wants to get to know Merlin in bed and inside out: he wants to burrow under his skin and learn him by heart, ‘til he's the only one who knows him that well.

With a hand in Merlin's hair, Arthur nibbles on Merlin's lips. Merlin cups his face, looks into it like he's found something precious. Touches him like Arthur's worth something, worth a lot to him. And that's the power of Merlin, his caring, his instinctive knowledge of hearts, his ability to dispense what's in his. With the same care he's shown so far, he runs the palm of his free hand down Arthur’s back, moving it in slow soothing motions that yet burn. Arthur shudders against him, and he deepens the kiss again, ‘til it becomes messy, all tongue and breath on breath.

His muscles straining, Merlin rolls them over, so that he's the one lying atop Arthur. Arthur can't refrain from smiling at that. It feels great. It feels like surrender, the kind that drives you mad with love. Like Merlin's embrace is peace. Their sweat mixes and the whole body touch is like a warm commotion of feeling. They gaze into each other's eyes for long beats – Merlin's full of brimming softness – and it's like they come to some kind of mutual understanding, some kind of silent pact.

Their mouths collide once more but it's different now, incrementally more passionate ‘til Arthur can barely keep up with it. He hungers for touch, for more of it, even if he's already in overload, already having more than he can parse, the warmth of their nakedness stabbing him in the heart and belly. His hands hitch for touch, full of need, so he sweeps his palms down Merlin's back, rests them low at his tailbone, cups his arse.

Merlin backs into the touch in a shimmying motion, then thrusts, sharp and quick. The move is reminiscent of penetration; the reminder of it, of all the possibilities that open up now they're behind closed doors. They fan all the blood to Arthur's head, make it course fast through him. It's what he wants. With this man, today. Every day.

“You know,” Merlin tells him in a croaky voice. “Deep down, I thought I had no right to you because it was too much of a mess, having the both of you. But I do want you, Arthur.” Merlin lays a gentle kiss on Arthur's lips. “I don't care what people think, how complicated it is, what it does to me, I just--” He grazes his mouth down Arthur's throat. “I do feel for you, so much, and I want you.”

“What are you waiting for?” Arthur grins into Merlin's face, does it in joy. “A written invitation?”

Merlin chuckles against his lips. “I don't know. I thought that with you being a prince, I'd need a formal invite written on parchment...”

“He thinks he's funny,” Arthur says, rolling his hips. “But if he doesn't get a move on...”

“I am.” Merlin's eyes go smaller at the sides. “I swear I am.”

Merlin is true to his word. He kisses Arthur's chest, brushing his lips against the line of his pectorals, brushing his nose against his chest hair.

Arthur gathers a fistful of blankets, arches, pushes into the touch He wants to feel it down to his core. It doesn't matter that he trembles and shakes, that Merlin will see it. He's eminently fine with that. He doesn't want to put up walls anymore; he's tired of them. He's tired of being the token prince, good for photo ops and little more.

Merlin scores his mouth downwards, puts damp kisses to his ribs, tongues Arthur's abs. His breath is hot and his lips are soft. They move lower, explore a horizontal path across Arthur's belly that goes from hip to hip. They skim the head of Arthur's cock and Arthur keens. He lifts his back off the mattress in search of their touch. So he can get a grip on himself, so he won't gush come like a boy, he has to wrap his palm around the base of his own prick. “Come on, Merlin,” he says, trying to feed Merlin his cock. “Come on, do it.”

It's leaking already and Arthur's body feels so hot he must be flushed from head to toe. And maybe he looks undone, maybe he's this close to begging, but he doesn't care. He needs Merlin like he needs air and he's so close to the brink already with all the pent up desire shored inside him, that he doesn't mind what he has to say to get what he wants.

Merlin flattens his tongue against the length of Arthur's cock, working his way back up to suck the tip into his mouth. Arthur blinks off sweat, twists the bedclothes, thrusts his hips forward.

Merlin huffs, coughs, turns his face away, a smile on it, goes back to work. He gathers a drop of pre-come on his tongue, gives Arthur another hard suck that has him moaning. Just when Arthur gets close, his guts knitting, Merlin pulls away.

“Merlin,” he says, pants, his hands questing for Merlin. “Merlin, come on.”

Merlin shakes Arthur's hand off, buries a smile in his thigh, roams his lips across it, wets patches of Arthur's skin with his tongue. Arthur tenses, core muscles going taut. When Merlin spreads his thighs and touches his tongue to his hole, Arthur thinks his lungs are going to burst.

The touch is warm and hot and his nerve endings burn. His stomach hollows as he sucks in a breath, not sure he can take it, the lancing pleasure that this is. When Merlin dips his tongue inside him, Arthur shouts. That doesn't stop Merlin and Arthur isn't sure he wants him to. He's walking a fine line between control and the loss of it. Though he wants the thrill of it to last, he also longs to get past that line and shatter into nothing.

As if he knows, Merlin curls his tongue inside him, a filthy poke, sucks on his rim, noses it and wets it and Arthur can't take anymore.

He shouts. He does it into his fist but he still makes a whole lot of noise. By now he's dripping sweat from all pores, his heart is drumming at his temples and all he can do is jerk his body into the touch, get more of the sensation. For relief, he palms his own cock, holds it against his belly, sweeping the leaking come off the tip. He's leaking so much he thinks he'll come if Merlin keeps fucking him with his tongue, putting it inside.

And oh God is Merlin good. He's filthy, unrepentant, bold. And though he's red about the face when he looks up, he's also got a glint in his eyes that's pure mischief. Arthur loves him for it. Feels quite fond of that look, inordinately so. But that doesn't mean Arthur will only go at Merlin’s pace. He'll find his dissolution if he does wait one second longer. He wants more, with every fibre of his being he does. So he directs Merlin's head back down between his spread legs, his palm on Merlin's hot nape, bears down against Merlin's mouth, the shock of its softness.

Merlin goes without a fight, dabbing his tongue in, running it around the rim of his hole before he seals his lips around it in a move that has Arthur panting as if he's about to die.

Before he can even think of getting his breath back, Merlin says “Lube?”

Arthur croaks something to the effect of, “Canvas bag at the foot of the bed.”

Then Merlin is slipping cool fingers inside him, his touch gentle. He butts his head against Arthur's knee and kisses it and says stupid things that oughtn't melt Arthur's heart but they do. They do with the otherworldly honesty of them, with the courage that shines in them, that comes with admitting love as easily as Merlin does. When Merlin sucks him again, Arthur forgets everything, his name, his duty, his family, everything but the bright bubble of pleasure that builds inside him at a steady pace.

When Merlin's cock nudges inside, Arthur's goes taut, a second away from coming. He thinks he will the moment Merlin homes in. It doesn't happen, but only because Merlin pauses, holds still, breathes out. His face is red, his brow beaded with sweat. His hair is in the same condition, clinging to his temples in wet strands. He looks undone. Arthur wants this as he never has wanted anything before, is quite impatient for him to do something. But he doesn't say a word.

Without commentary from Arthur, Merlin rocks forward and his face screws up in pleasure just as Arthur's does. As he finds leverage for his next thrust, his back muscles roll under Arthur's palm.

“Is this okay?” Merlin croaks as he slots back in and they're face to face, his thumb going in circles over Arthur's cheekbone. “Am I doing it right?”

Arthur strains upwards and puts his lips to Merlin's. “Yes. More of that.”

From then on everything is a bit of a blur for Arthur. Sensation builds and builds, crests high. Merlin finds a rhythm, a slow back and forth of hips, that becomes steadier and steadier and gets Arthur teetering right on the edge of orgasm.

Their hips lock and release a handful more times, their muscles working in counterpoint, Arthur with his legs and arms around Merlin, Merlin with one hand in Arthur's hair, his arm braced in a bugle of biceps, thrusting on, going faster, his tempo surprising even him, if the look on his face's anything to go by.

The new rhythm must be doing something for Merlin too because he grabs Arthur's hips, and, muscles straining, drives forward with more intent. His face contorts in pleasure and he seems so into it, Arthur feels a vicarious thrill. And then the sensations building up inside him take centre stage. They're intense, burning his muscles and bringing his heart to his throat, pinning him to his body. He curls his fingers around the curve of his cock, bites his lips and comes all over his hands and belly.

Merlin shudders into the next thrust, his hips twisting sharply. He gives off a breathy moan and his body goes on lock down.

Merlin holds still through the aftershocks and Arthur clings to him throughout, his hands moving down his back in calming strokes.

Afterwards, they move apart, lying side by side on the bed, perspiration drying on their skin, breathing patterns slowly going back to normal.

Arthur swipes a hand down his face, takes a big breath and says, “It's got late.”

Merlin presses the heel of his hand against an eye, smiles. “Has it?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, throwing a look at the alarm clock. The numbers 19:30 blare red on its display. “Nearly time for dinner.”

“Do you want to eat so badly?” Merlin turns on his side and places his hand on the sheets between them.

“Actually.” Arthur covers Merlin's hand with his. “No. I'm not really hungry.”

“So can we...” Merlin rabbits closer and presses his lips against Arthur’s in a flicker of a motion. “Can we stay in bed a while longer?”

“Were you afraid I'd kick you out?”

“No. Well, a little.” He gives Arthur a shoulder shove. “Just asking.”

“I think,” Arthur says, nuzzling Merlin's face, “that we can afford some time to ourselves.”

They neck on the bed, lazy and sweet, until they have little breath left and there's scarcely any light in the room. They smile against each other's lips, tangle their feet together, keep in a lax embrace that doesn't lead to other things. When their stomachs rumble, they both have a laugh.

“I suppose you can't only live on love...” Merlin says, going squint eyed for how much he's smiling.

Since he doesn't want to frighten Merlin with an overload of romanticism, Arthur sucks in a breath, inspects the duvet, then forces his face into wearing as easy a smile as he can. “Let's go get some food.”

“Shower first.”

They shower together, using tons of hot water and being decadent about it. They wash each other, torsos, legs, backs, more intimate places that have their eyes go large with the daring of what they're doing, the boundaries they're crashing over. Arthur shampoos Merlin but he mustn't be doing it right – or maybe he's having too good a time with the bubbles – because Merlin cries out he's being blinded.

“You twat,” he says, while he does a lot of eye knuckling. When he stops he looks so endearing, with his hair up in soapy tufts and so teary eyed, Arthur nudges his lips apart for a kiss that only stops when the water gets cold.

When they're dry and clothed, they sneak out of Arthur's room and into the kitchens. They steal past the cooks and nick bread, cheese, pickles, sliced ham and fruit. They make so much noise as they indulge in their grand theft session – as Merlin dubs it – Arthur's sure they must have alerted half of Gwaine's staff to their shenanigans. Arthur's not sure whether they're not saying anything because of who Arthur is or because they're guests anyway and entitled to a few snacks, but no one calls them out on their plunder.

When they return to their room, Arthur lights a fire in the fireplace. It's not that it's cold, far from it, but the glow from it paints the room in warm colours and Merlin looks quite good in its light. They put the plates at the end of the bed and sprawl on it on their bellies, feet to the headboard. At first, and mostly for a lark, they try and feed each other, but it doesn't quite work out, so they settle for picking out their food for themselves.

“I'd have loved it if it was Stilton,” Arthur says, chewing on.

“What no sophisticated French cheese for you, your Highness?” Merlin fills his mouth with too big of a mouthful. He makes a point of masticating like a squirrel.

“No.” Arthur arches an eyebrow. “I'm very simple and frugal in my tastes.”

“Yes, you only like death stink cheeses.” Merlin seals his lips together and, mouth full, smiles.

Arthur elbows him, nearly sending the pickles flying. “Oh, shut up.”

“I'm not kissing you now you've had your cheese though,” Merlin says, swallowing. “Nope not for the world.”

Arthur laughs. And perhaps what's Merlin's said is not so funny, but he just feels like it. Merlin looks at him as if he's grown a second head.

Arthur picks up a cucumber and says, “Marry me?”

**** 

The church sits on a cliff overlooking the sea. It's squat at the centre with a round rose window to break up the façade. It has two towers. One is short and sticks upwards from behind the main edifice. The other has a belfry. Gulls sweep around its roof and past its turrets.

Their breaths coming fast, Arthur and Merlin run up towards it. When they've nearly made the steps, they meet Elena. She's dressed in her bridal dress, her veil before her face, the intricacies of its whorls hiding her features. She's clutching the bouquet with both hands and her grip is a fair bit white-knuckled. When she sights Arthur though, she hits him with the bouquet, petals raining around them. “You utter pillock, you're the best man and you're late.”

“I'm sorry,” Arthur says, hands flying up defensively. “I apologise. I woke late and...”

“Gwaine texted me twenty times asking where you were.” Elena thumps him with the flowers one more time. Then her gaze shifts from Arthur to Merlin. “Oh,” she says. “Oh.”

Arthur shifts his weight. “So how do we go about the wedding?”

“Well, I was about to go in,” Elena tells him, “but I'll wait now.” She shoos him in with her hands. “Go, go.”

Guests' heads turning to look at him as he goes, Arthur runs up the aisle. It's flanked by fluted pillars and square box pews. While Merlin takes a seat in one, Arthur rushes to the altar. Gwaine says, “High time, Arthur, high time.”

“Sorry,” Arthur mouths. He takes position behind Gwaine, feet wide apart, hands clasped together. He bows his head and murmurs again, “Sorry.”

The music starts. Arthur smiles when he detects the first notes of the song. It's _November Rain_ by Guns and Roses and it fits Elena and Gwaine to a T. Arthur would have been at pains to think up a more perfect choice.

When Elena gets to Gwaine, he takes both her hands. Together they turn towards the vicar.

“Dearly beloved,” the vicar says, “we have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony.”

As the vicar continues, Gwaine and Elena smile into each other's faces, their eyes sparkling.

The vicar goes on, chest out, glasses perched on his nose.

Arthur's eyes rove over the pews. He finds Merlin in the tenth one, sitting close to Morgause. Morgana is eyeing him with interest, but Merlin is actually paying attention to the ceremony itself. And though he doesn't know Gwaine and Elena well, he smiles throughout, nods in places and cocks his head in others, his own personal commentary to the action.

Sometimes he engages Arthur's gaze and Arthur does the same. He's been at plenty of weddings anyway and knows how they go.

There is something to this one, however, that sets it apart. Perhaps it's the mood Gwaine and Elena have elected to go for, the easiness of it, or their camaraderie in this, but what they've made of the ceremony is a real stand out. They smile at each other in the way of partners in crime. They make faces at each other the vicar deigns to ignore and shamelessly elbow each other as their amused guests look on. Unlike other pairs of brides and bridegrooms whose unions Arthur has witnessed, they're less figure pieces in a canvas of someone else's invention and more like accomplices in a great triumph of their own making. And that, rather than the rota words the vicar is speaking, works its charm on Arthur, makes him see the moment as more than empty ritual, but rather as a stepping stone for a future he wants for himself too. Perhaps not in the exact same configuration Elena and Gwaine have gone for themselves but one of his own choosing.

In the past, while sitting through other such events he hadn't experienced the same desire to be a part of one. He hadn't quite imagined a version that would fit him, not while he was the man he was born to be, not while others controlled the manner in which he presented himself to the world. He had seen form and obligation in the words, and little allure. Now he sees the charm in it.

Arthur is still lost in his reverie, when Gwaine elbows him and says, “Arthur, the ring.”

Arthur's eyes go round and he pats his pockets. He'd woken unspeakably late this morning, tangled with Merlin, sun already in his face. He'd dressed quickly then, brushed his hair into some semblance of styling, and raked up the ring from the room safe. He'd put the ring in... Not in his trousers pockets apparently. He searches his jacket.

Gwaine mutters through his teeth. “What the hell, Arthur, what the hell.”

Elena is making big eyes at him and simpering worriedly at the vicar.

From his pew Merlin shakes his head, red dusting his cheeks when he understands what's going on.

Arthur combs his inside coat pockets. When his fingers close around the cool and smooth surface of the ring, he sighs. “Here,” he says, passing it on to Gwaine. “Found it.”

Gwaine glares at Arthur but his face morphs into a mask of gentleness when he takes Elena's hand and says, “I Gwaine Patrick--” he mumbles here though Arthur knows well that Gwaine's third name is Archibald -- “de Courteney, take you Elena Beatrice Marlow Gawant to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, ‘til death do us part.”

Later, when everyone's filing out of the church, Arthur knocks on the door to the Vicar's office. “May I?” he asks.

 

**** 

**A Royal Scandal?**

Prince Arthur sleeping with her fiancé may be just another royal rumour, but it would be totally understandable if the suspicion had crossed the Princess Royal’s mind. The facts are, if not incriminating, then at least concerning.

Prince Arthur recently attended the wedding of old time university pal, Gwaine de Courteney, Earl of Devon (27), and known socialite and riding champion Elena Gawant (also 27). As the alleged ex of the groom, Morgana, the Princess Royal, was also present alongside her fiancé of seven months, Merlin Emrys.

In spite of recent tabloid speculation as to his being on the verge of proposing to a mysterious lady, Arthur turned up at the reception stag, but, witnesses say, he didn't spend all his time there alone. An old time friend and university mate of the Prince's revealed his concerns to us. “Arthur's behaviour was quite unseemly. I mean, sleeping around is quite accepted, especially in our circles, and no one would have batted an eyelash if Penda --” This is a reference to the nickname Prince Arthur went by first at Eaton and then at Cambridge – “had had his fun with all of the bridesmaids, but he just stole Morgana's boy toy from under her nose... which I suppose is indecorous and a violation of family trust.”

Other insiders present at the event confirm that Prince Arthur did indeed carry on with Mr Emrys. “He disappeared on the Saturday, together with the Merlin fellow, turned up late for the wedding, and spent all of the reception with Mr Emrys. He even danced with him. I cannot think that Morgana was happy with any of that. Nor should she be.”

Grunhilda Lawson author of the 2013 biography _Princess Morgana, Born to Be Royalty_ reveals that the Princess has always been very territorial when it comes to her conquests. Though she's been known to have admitted that she would not be able to love only one person, she's very possessive of the people she does bed. In her last year at elite boarding school Cobham Hall, Morgana cut two of her friends from her circle because they eyed her sweethearts. We can only imagine how she might react now that she's grown out of her flings phase and moved on to finding a stable life partner. Many assume she'll be more ruthless than ever. Prior to her brother's interference, Princess Morgana's relationship with Mr Emrys was entirely without issue and speculated to be leading to a summer wedding.

Whether Prince Arthur is sleeping with his future brother in law or not, it's clear he's given rise to many a rumour. The Royals have an atrocious track record with those, starting with the marital quarrels that allegedly contributed to Queen Ygraine's post-partum death, down to the family rows between the King and Princess Morgana herself. While Arthur hasn’t done anything to make us think that he has misbehaved, there's plenty of proof – aerial shots taken at the Earl of Devon's wedding – that do indicate that the Prince and Mr Emrys are thick as thieves.

 

**** 

 

Security ushers him in. The moment Arthur enters his study, Father flings himself at him. “Explain the meaning of these rumours!”

Arthur can't act as though he doesn't know what his father is talking about. He's seen the articles and the photos. While the British press has more or less been discreet about the scandal, the same hasn't been true of the foreign one. The internet is currently giving him hives. “Father, I think we'd better discuss this calmly.”

Father's eyes flare. “I would. Oh I would, if I hadn't the suspicion there was something to these rumours. Tell me there's nothing to them and I will calm down.”

Arthur knows he's got to be circumspect, but he can't and won't lie. “Father, I didn't betray Morgana's trust. It's important to me that you know that.”

Father straightens his head out of its cocked position. “You're not denying it!”

“No, I'm not denying it,” Arthur says, making sure his shoulders are pulled back and that he doesn't betray any sign of nerves. “I have no reason to. Thanks to Morgana, I've come to know Merlin quite well and in doing so I've come to find he's a lovely man.” He reminds himself of all of Merlin's positive qualities. They're so many he can't actually believe how lucky he is, how fortunate. The weekend he spent with Merlin at Gwaine's, what happened after the reception are all events that flood back to him, tinged in a rose tinted light. “Actually, he's an incredibly upright man you'd be absolutely proud of if you just knew him.”

Father blanches. “You mean to say you're really in a relationship with your sister's boyfriend?”

“Those are the lurid terms the rags used to describe what Merlin and I have,” Arthur says in as calm a tone as he can muster when he considers the filth that was written. “But the truth is that while Morgana and Merlin had something, it wasn't serious. Merlin and I--” Arthur feels light-headed, as if he's about to take a plunge of a cliff. “What Merlin and I have is quite serious.”

Father steps back and doubles over against the desk. “You must be joking! You can't be sleeping with the same man your sister had an intimate relationship with!”

“That makes it sound worse than it is,” Arthur says, though he can't deny that technically what Father is saying is correct. Morgana and he did have sex with the same man. “But it's not so simplistic as that. Morgana is fine with it. Merlin has no problem with it. And I most assuredly don't.” He smiles, his face heats, and he has to look away. “I've never been quite so happy, Father.”

Father goes red in the face, dabs at his forehead. “You will terminate this relationship right this moment.”

“What?” Prior to these summons, Arthur was aware he would have a hard time persuading his father that Merlin was it, the man he meant to marry, but he'd at least hoped that he would have a grace period of the kind Morgana had. With time he can work things out, slowly forge his way towards acceptance of his relationship. “Father, you can't ask me that.”

“I can and I will,” Father shouts. It's not something he has done often. Actually, Arthur can count the number of times it's happened on the fingers of one hand. “By God, I will.”

This is it, this is the worst case scenario and Arthur feels like he's free-falling. The idea of giving up Merlin makes his guts churn and him feel ill. The prospect of going back to how he'd been before, to the life of duty and drudgery he'd led, is one that makes his heart heavy. “No, I won't.” Considering how it all started out, with him trying to persuade Morgana to ditch Merlin, he may be a terrible hypocrite, but he's not ready to make the sacrifices he once asked of others. “I refuse to. I love him.”

“You love him!” Father thunders. He's puce about the face, his lips have drawn thin in a sneer, and the vein in his forehead has taken to bulging. But he doesn't seem to notice because he's embracing his anger, and quite passionately too. “You don't know the least thing about love! You don't know anything at all.”

“I'm sorry, Father.” Arthur shakes his head because there's nothing else he can do. He won't capitulate. And while he doesn't want to make an enemy of his father – is gutted at the idea that that could happen -- he can't agree to his terms. “I won't go back on my word.”

“Your word! You've given him your word?” Father's lips go grey and he shouts at the top of his lungs, his hands cutting the air in wild motions. “You will do as I say. You will go back on your word. You won't sully our name with such a relationship, one engendered in sexual filth, with a man that has none, I repeat none, of the attributes that are sought for in a royal match. One who is so below us, in fact--”

Arthur can't listen to this any longer and won't. “I ask you not to talk of the man I intend to marry in such terms.”

“Marry! Marry!” Father strides forwards, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders, fingers digging in. “I refuse. I refuse. I refuse to coun--” Father's mouth works but no more words come out of it. He doubles over, clutching at his chest, his face grey with the pallor of marble. “I--”

“Father,” Arthur says, his arms going round him. He is, he believes, currently supporting most of his father's weight. “Father, what's the matter?”

“A pain--” Father goes to his knees, dragging Arthur down with him, his mouth open in a spasm. “My chest. A pain in my chest.”

Father's face twists in a grimace Arthur's never seen on it. The vein at his temple is as thick as a rope and he's gone so, so pale, he looks like death. “Help,” he shouts thickly. “Help, the King needs help.”

 

***** 

 

The sheets are a stark white and the bed is so wide anyone would be at pains to think it's a hospital gurney. But the beeping machinery and the tubes leading into his father's arms tell a different tale altogether. Father may have a stack of four pillows to prop up his head and flowers to adorn his room, but he's still very much an intensive care patient.

Arthur rubs both hands down his face, releases a sigh and buries his head in them.

He's still in that position, when Leon pokes his head in. “Arthur, I was wondering if you wanted me to get you something from the canteen.”

“No,” Arthur says, sucking in a breath before he lets his shoulders go back up. “No, I'm absolutely fine as is.”

“Arthur,” Leon says and his eyes gentle as he does so. “You haven't eaten anything since this morning.”

“I tell you.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “I'm fine. The last thing I am is hungry.”

Leon enters and closes the door behind him. “I understand, but you can't run on empty indefinitely.”

“Leon.” Arthur cocks his head, heaves a sigh.

“I'm serious, Arthur,” Leon tells him. “It's been five days, you've hardly slept, you only eat when someone reminds you--”

“Leon.” Arthur gestures at his father on the bed. Even if he looks placid, he's nothing but. He's so feeble, he has barely woken since he was taken ill, and those times Arthur wasn't even there to witness. “This is not the kind of situation that inclines you towards hunger...”

“Perhaps not.” Leon doesn't say it as though he's agreeing with Arthur, more like he's humouring him. “But still, you've got to look after yourself.” He gives the man in the bed a once over. “I'm sure your father would be on my side in this.”

The fact is Arthur can't be sure. He betrayed his father so fundamentally he doesn't believe he is still wishing him well at this point. “I'll get something when they kick me out.”

Leon inhales hard, places a hand on his shoulder. “As you...”

The door opens again and Arthur's about to complain about the amount of toing and froing going on, when Morgana enters.

She strides over to the bed, carrying flowers, and kisses Father on the forehead. She doesn't say anything to Arthur.

Leon says, “I'll be waiting outside in case either of you needs me.”

The door closes softly behind him and silence grows between Arthur and Morgana. It sits ill with Arthur but he's so tired he can barely think, let alone suss out Morgana's mood.

She sits in a chair on the other side of the bed from Arthur, dropping her bag at her feet. She settles, resettles, clacks her tongue.

Face averted from Morgana, Arthur closes his eyes.

“I really can't believe it,” she says at last, her voice sharp and clear.

Arthur sucks in a breath, braces for impact, shoulders knotting in an upward motion. “What, Morgana, what can't you believe?”

“It seems fairly evident to me,” she says, nocking her eyebrow as if it was an arrow.

Arthur feels himself pierced by it. It's as if his skin has become so thin anything might slice it open. “I am sorry.”

“You should be.” She compresses her lips. “You should really be.”

“I did what I could,” Arthur says, jumping to his feet. He walks to Father's bed, grabs the rails, releases them. “I know I should have broken it to him in a gentler way, but at the time I could think of nothing other than telling him.” He hadn't wanted to betray his principles, break his word with Merlin, had he? And this is where it's landed him. “I called for help as soon as I realised what was going on.” And that hadn't been enough. “I understand now that I should have held my peace. That I should have been a better son.”

“That's not what I'm blaming you for.” Morgana lifts her eyes to him. She's paler than usual, her skin almost translucent. With scarcely any make up on, she looks much younger, more fragile. “I'm blaming you for ditching Merlin, again.”

“Morgana!” Arthur hisses. And even though he feels a wave of indignation washing through him at Morgana's timing and choice of bedside topic, he can't help but feel a motion from his heart. It's some sort of stab that pumps the last of his blood away from it. “That's hardly the thing to discuss now, is it?”

“Normally, I'd agree,” she says. “But while we can do nothing for Uther, nothing at least that doctors and nurses can't do a hundred times better, you may make it up to Merlin.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says and it's low gritty, like he's left with only a thread of voice. It's absurd. He hasn't shouted or cried or done anything that would impact his vocal cords so. “There's a time and a place for...”

“This was my only opportunity.” Morgana jerks her head up. “You're only ever here.”

“And where do you think I'd be?” He stabs her with as reproving a glare he can muster.

“Nowhere but here,” Morgana says, her features relaxing. “But that doesn't mean you have to throw everything else by the wayside. You refuse to talk to me, refuse to see Merlin.”

“It's over between me and him.”

Morgana curls her fingers on her knee. “Might I ask why?”

“Because this happened.” Arthur eyes the bed and his heart breaks all over again. His father has always been strong, always been someone Arthur thought invulnerable. This still, drawn, silent figure is not him by any means. “This happened because I gave him such pain...”

“And you don't think that's selfish?” Morgana asks. “Being so pained at one's own son happiness?”

“Get out,” Arthur says, eyes on his father, whom Arthur put into this bed, rather than on his sister. “You can't understand because you've always given him grief, always fought him. Because--” He knows what blow he's going to inflict before he does, but nonetheless lets it out. “You never loved him.”

Morgana stands slowly, picks her bag up. “That is what you think, then.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says, before she can make for the door.

“No.” Morgana stops with her hand on the handle. “You know, I can take you calling me easy. I can take you suspecting me of cheating. But what I won't accept what you just said.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says, but Morgana doesn't heed his words and exits.

Arthur stays ‘til the light of the sun dims, artificial ones flicker on, and the nurse finally turns him out, telling him they've already made a big exception letting him stay so long past visiting hours. Arthur lets himself be driven home, makes a beeline for his rooms, showers, and face-plants into the bed.

Though it shouldn't, sleep comes easy. He's so drained, his brain shuts down and he can't even think his darkest thoughts. Those come back with a vengeance in the small hours of the morning, when he wakes again. Then he thinks about the future, makes allowances for the darkest scenarios, takes all the blame for them. He makes himself picture each one of them, builds them up in his head. He can see how it will go. He'll make it to the hospital one morning and they'll tell him his father hasn't made it, that he's king.

Arthur knows enough not to indulge in those thoughts. He must act, put his game face on. He doesn't breakfast; only shaves and showers. He calls for his driver; this morning it's one whose name he doesn't know, and lets himself be dropped at the hospital.

Father doesn't wake today.

 

**** 

 

**Has Merlin Emrys Killed King Uther?**

 

Late Sunday afternoon, while the nation was pinned to their armchairs in the throes of Wimbledon fever, King Uther was taken ill and admitted to King Edward VII Hospital. Early on Monday rumours as to the nature of the King's ailment began to surface. While word on the street had it that the King was dead or dying, Buckingham Palace played down fears about the Monarch's health.

However, following his hospitalisation, King Uther pulled out of an engagement given on behalf of the Royal National Institute of Blind People and from a commemoration of his Father's coronation to be held in Westminster Abbey. King Uther's absences from important scheduled events seemed to solidify the general sense of misgiving, which eventually led the Palace to issue a formal statement. “On Sunday night,” a spokeswoman's communiqué read, “His Majesty suffered a case of myocardial infarction. Thanks to a team of indefatigable doctors, he was stabilised and is currently looking forward to resuming his duties.” A second Palace statement issued later that evening stated that "further updates will be issued when appropriate.”

A source close to the Royal Family maintains that this is all par for the course. "Naturally, Buckingham Palace is reluctant to go into too much detail because the information released concerns the King himself. But that seems normal and to be expected, certainly not grounds for worry.”

While the Prime Minister himself sent a buoyant tweet, saying, "My best wishes to His Majesty who is in hospital this week. I hope he has a swift recovery,” not all seems to be well.

With Police officers standing guard outside the hospital's perimeter and medical staff warning the King may not be well enough to return to his duties this summer, things don't seem to be looking up as much as the King's well-wishers might hope.

In this climate of general confusion and with so little news concerning the monarch's welfare, it's natural that questions should have turned to the reasons behind the King's indisposition.

Generally regarded as a healthy and strong man, King Uther was only hospitalised once in 1998 over a minor surgery scheduled to fix knee problems ensuing from a skiing accident. Given his spotless clinical record, there are some that think his mental state, rather than some underlying condition or risk factor, had something to do with the sudden deterioration in the King's health. A Royal Family insider told our reporters that “the King has been eaten up by worry on account of the Emrys scandal. It had quite an ill effect on him.” Further probed on the subject, the insider said, “it's not just the magnitude of it, the Royal family has been trained to weather worse, it's the identities of the participants themselves that has moved the King to great concern.”

One of King Uther's closest staff, who prefers to stay undisclosed, said ”the King wasn't in a poor way before. It's the Emrys situation.” When asked to specify, the Buckingham Palace staffer opined, “Emrys has been known to be a gold digger for quite some time. When it became clear to him the Princess Royal hadn't quite fallen for his wiles as he had hoped, he moved on to another objective, her brother.”

Distant relatives of the King maintain that literal heart break caused the King's health to deteriorate. “He couldn't bear to think that his children had been played by such a ruthless, duplicitous schemer.” 

While several journalistic sources allege that Emrys had a deal with the paparazzi that would allow him to break news of a scandal in a manner that would force the Royal household's hand into accepting him into its fold, Buckingham Palace has declined to comment.

“But they wouldn't, would they?” Royal Observer Ambrose Aglovale says. “They would actually bury such proof because it paints them as easily duped fools. Even without official confirmation, the facts appear quite clear. Mr Emrys has orchestrated the Devon Wedding photo leak as a way to put pressure on the Royal family and carve his way into it.”

Courtiers who are nursing the King are privately concerned about his well-being, with one of them going as far as to say, “The responsibility for this lies at Mr Emrys' door.”

Friends and family members of Mr Emrys' have been reached for comment but none agreed to speak to the press, save one. Mr Emrys’ self-proclaimed closest pal, one William Grazier, did remark, “Fuck you. Fuck you. And fuck you. This is defamation, you wankers.”

A former University pal of Prince Arthur's who's also acquainted with Mr Emrys said, “With such a common background, it's no wonder Emrys turned out to be such a scoundrel. I'm sure Penda's regretting the whole affair now.”

With the nation in turmoil over the fate of its King – and the monarchy – the question cannot be ignored. Is Merlin Emrys responsible for the King's near demise? Has he, in fact, managed to do what only the civil war of 1648 accomplished and managed to kill a king?

The answer is one only the King's health care providers can now give.

 

***** 

 

Arthur is typing away at his computer, trying to find the right wording for private letters to distant family members who will want to know how his father is faring directly from the horse's mouth rather than from communiqués, when he hears the commotion. Arthur saves the drafts, and leaves his room. Shoeless, he pads downstairs where the voices sound clearer.

“Please, Owain, you know me,” Merlin says and it's him clear as day. He sounds winded, his voice rough. “You know I know Arthur...”

“I know,” Owain says. “But we can't allow any trespassers in. It's the law. It's enough I won't call the police on you if you consent to go.”

Arthur goes down the flight of stairs separating him from the ground floor. When he peeks round the parlour door, he sees Merlin. He's standing face first against the wall. One of the security guys on duty today is twisting his arm behind his back. Owain is holding his hands up, clearly mediating between Merlin and the officer on rota.

Arthur clears his throat. “What is going on here?”

Though he has to strain against the man holding him, Merlin turns towards him. “Please, Arthur, tell these people I know you.”

Everybody and their mother are probably aware of who Merlin is by this point. The press has seen to that. But security doesn't act on hearsay. “You can let him go,” Arthur says.

The guard does as he's told and steps backwards.

Merlin works his shoulders and grimaces. “Arthur, I--”

“Come upstairs,” Arthur tells him, leading the way.

Merlin follows him and his feet fall lightly on the carpet.

Arthur ushers him in the blue drawing room. It was, he's been told, a favourite with one of the daughters in law of Queen Victoria. It's a bright room and it faces the park, a part of it that's not at all busy, seldom thronged by tourists wandering around the outreaches of Kensington.

Arthur gestures at one of the sofas and Merlin sits at the very edge of it.

Arthur takes the seat opposite him.

“I know I shouldn't have come,” Merlin says, hands on knees, all prim and proper, except for the light that shines in his eyes. That is intimate and caressing, full of understanding. So much so it leaves Arthur bleeding from every pore. “I understand that. But you weren't answering my calls or my texts and....” He lowers his eyes. “With what happened to your father... I worried.”

“I'm fine.” Arthur keeps his chin up and focuses on keeping his face free of most expressions, at least of those that would betray what's inside him. “After all, the one who's badly off is my father.”

“That's nonsense.” Merlin eyes spark, then he sighs and his shoulders slope. “Yes, he's ill. But it's taken a toll on you too. Don't act as if that wasn't a real burden.”

“Comparatively, however...”

“I think I know the difference between ‘all right’ and this.” Merlin eyes him from head to foot as if there's something about the way Arthur's holding himself that tells the tale of his woe. “And believe me it's a huge difference.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Arthur responds formally as he presses his lips together, makes a fist.

“Arthur--”

“You're right,” Arthur says, because it hurts to have to look at Merlin like this. It hurts to think of bygones and know them for what they are. “What happened changes things.”

“I understand, Arthur.” Merlin twitches and it's as if he wants to start forward and bridge the gap between himself and Arthur. “If there's anything I can do, however, as a friend...”

Merlin's concern undoes him. It's as if Arthur's insides have gone to ice and Merlin's fire, a step too close and Arthur would be nothing. The temptation's strong. It would be easy to be selfish. It would be easy to take the path of least resistance and let himself come apart. Merlin would be there to pick up the pieces. But that's not right. He has strength enough, a moral code solid enough, to allow him to make the correct choices. “There is nothing you can do...”

“A helping hand--”

“Because I can't see you anymore.” There, it's out. It had to be said. He couldn't keep this to himself much longer. It wouldn't have been honest. It wouldn't have been fair. True, it's like taking his heart from his chest and committing it to stone, but it's not something that can be avoided. Not now. “Pursuing this...” He locks his hands together. “Me and you... in view of what's happened.... I can't, Merlin.”

Merlin takes in a sharp breath. It's so loud Arthur thinks his ribcage will shatter. Of course it doesn't. Arthur's flattering himself if he thinks his words will have such an impact on Merlin. “Oh...” He chews on his lower lip, eyes losing focus before his expression sharpens again. “You mean it's game over, not just for now, but always?” A tearful, self-deprecating smile cracks the lines of Merlin's face. “You're... dumping me, even as a friend?”

“I wouldn't put it in those terms.” Arthur finds the words distasteful. Not only that, he would never use them in regards to Merlin. If he'd had his way, if he had a choice, parting with Merlin would be the last thing he'd ever do. As things stand, however, he must learn to give him up. Of the two, he's the one who's failed. “But I must think of my father first, you understand.”

Merlin dips his head. “I see,” he says, exhaling, then looks back up. “Just... Do you really think that's going to help in any way?”

Arthur knows it won't. Knows the solitude will eat him up inside. He's already been treading a fine line, and knows he'll be trapped in a dreary, suffocating world of heartache if he goes on this path he's chosen. But what other way is there? “No. I don't think that. But if it gives my father any ease, if it helps him in any way, it's the right choice.”

Merlin nods slowly. “Well, there's nothing I can say to that. Your father... I get it, you know. How much you love him. If I had my dad, I'd...” He sniffles. “Even if I don't, I'd never dream of coming between you and your family, Arthur. I know what it means to you and I... I just want the best for you.” He stands, shifts his weight, rakes a hand through his hair, drops it.. “I suppose I'd better go. I want to catch the last train back to Durham.”

“I can have one of my chauffeurs drive you.”

“No, thank you.” A small, tepid smile broken off by a lip quiver crosses Merlin's face. “Trains are fine.” He walks over to the door, a distinct downward slope to his shoulders. When he gets to it, he turns around. There are tears in his eyes but he's smiling softly. “I wish you well, Arthur, both you and your father.”

Arthur wants to dab at Merlin's tears with his fingers, wants to taste the salt of them on his tongue. He wishes he could take Merlin in his arms and never let go. But he can't do that. So he steels himself for what he must do. It's like losing a constituent part of himself, a component that keeps the mechanisms inside him from crumbling. “Thank you, Merlin, thank you for caring enough to come.”

Arthur hopes that will turn Merlin off him for good. Make him dislike Arthur enough, he'll turn a new page just fine, embrace a new life without regret.

By the time the door closes, Arthur can't keep it in focus anymore because his stupid eyes are filled with tears.

***** 

Light shines in clean and bright from the windows overlooking the city. It floods over the bed, washing the bedclothes pale. Arthur draws the curtains, shuts the city out, and turns round.

When he does, it's to see his father looking at him.

“Father!” Arthur gasps, then makes for the door. He wants a doctor present. He needs to be reassured that his father's fine.

Arthur's already half way over, when Father croaks out, “Wait, Arthur, wait.”

“Are you sure you don't want me to...” Arthur's heart beating so fast he's having a hard time coming up with words. “Call, um, anyone?”

“No.” Father may look wan, his face hollowed out, but his mouth is set and his gaze oozes determination. “Sit by me.”

Arthur isn't sure that is wise, but he can't deny his father's wishes. Not after all that's happened. Not when everything that's come to pass has been a result of his refusal to bow to those wishes. He sits heavily in the chair, his eyes on his father's hand where tape stretches outwards to pin down a needle. Though veins rope it a thick blue, it's still a strong large hand. “How,” Arthur says, and finds that his mouth's so stiff, like he's been punched, that he can hardly vocalise what he means to say. “How do you feel?”

“Not at my best,” Father says, and there's a spark of humour in his tone, some of it lacing his gaze too. “But I'm not dead, nor do I intend to shuffle off this mortal coil yet.”

Arthur realises he should smile; it's what Father's gunning for. But he can't do that. His lips tremble and he bites them so they'll stop quivering. “I was worried,” is what he says. “God, Father, I was so scared.”

Father moves his hand across the blanket. “I understand, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn't think Father truly does. They've never talked. There have always been issues between them and Father's likely to think they have hardened Arthur against him. But Arthur has come to find that while those issues have complicated their relationship, they have never tainted it. His shoulders shake and despite his efforts not to, he cries. He sheds one tear after another, slow and silent. He tries to staunch them with his hands, doesn't wish to sob in front of his father. He's an adult for God's sake. Though he manages to dry his eyes, they well right up again. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Arthur,” Father says and covers his hand with his. “You're not to be sorry for any of this...”

Oh but he is. He put his father in a hospital bed. He nearly lost him. And he can't even keep himself in check, greet him calmly, give him strength when he most needs it. “I--”

“No, Arthur.” Father is seeking his eyes but Arthur won’t look into them. “You went through a really stressful situation and nothing you did was...” Father moves, scooting backwards so his pillows prop him up squarely. “...wrong.

“Father.” Arthur is afraid is eyes have become roundels... “If I hadn't... If I hadn't talked back.”

Though Arthur can't complete the sentence, his guilt too appalling to put into words, Father seems to guess what he means.

“No, Arthur, you're not to hold yourself responsible.”

But Arthur is. He can't see how anyone could think otherwise. “Father, I--”

“No, listen to me,” Father says, “I had a heart attack. That was my heart's fault because it gave. It was my fault because I should have looked after it better. If you like...” Father lifts his hand off the coverlet and gestures feebly with it, “you may find fault with God, or fate. What's certain is that you didn't cause any of this, son.”

“But I was obstinate.” Arthur forces the words out past the tightness in his throat. He swallows hard and continues. “I fought you. I made you angry.”

Father rattles out a sigh. “Oh, son.”

Arthur looks up. The word in its rarity shakes him to the core, makes him take pause and linger on it, a warmth that he can't stop flooding his insides.

“Thinking you're dying,” Father says, staring ahead. “Does things to a man.”

“Father,” Arthur says. “You're not to say that.”

“Oh but I have to say this.” Father sits up. “I've behaved badly. Not as king, but as a man. As a father.”

“That's not true.” Arthur understands how Father's hand had been forced with regard to his children, he can see how he had no other choice but to be hard on them. He's always been training them for the future. “You did what you had to.”

“No.” Father shakes his head. “I was blinded by my need to do what I thought had to be done, by my desire to conform, to please public opinion. And coming so close to death, I came face to face with the futility of it.”

“You've been a good king,” Arthur says, choked up. “You've been a fine role model.”

“But not a good father, either to you or to Morgana,” Father tells him with a long sigh. “And I need to make up for that now.”

“Father--” Arthur places a hand on his father's shoulder, tries to squeeze it. “-- all you need do now is rest.”

“No, Arthur,” Father says, placing his hand on top of Arthur's. It's a little cold, the fingers bony. “I've come to realise there's no postponing the things that matter.”

Arthur can see his father is ill at ease with Arthur's attempts to change the subject. So it seems better to humour him, keep him calm, relaxed. “Right, Father.”

“I've been too stern, I believe.” Father licks his grey, chapped lips. “I understand you've done your best as a son and prince and I admit that I've set too high a standard for you, one that no man could attain.”

Arthur believed that once. For years he's lived with the knowledge he wasn't up to snuff. That whatever he did he would never make his father proud. But now he thinks that perhaps that wasn't true. He's so far failed because he hasn't sacrificed enough. “No, it wasn't your standards, it was me. If I had listened...”

“You did well not to listen.” Father's ribcage fills with his next breath. “Listen, carefully, Arthur, because I don't know if I'll be around to say this again.”

Arthur wants to promise his father that he'll have all the time in the world to say what he wants, but something in the way he looks stops him. He only bows his head.

Father says, “I was an obstacle to your happiness once before...”

Arthur has a strange suspicion he knows what his father talking about. “You mean... Lancelot.”

“Indeed.”

“Father--” Arthur doesn't want to think about Lancelot. There was something so innocent about it he's never really been able to bring himself to deal with the aftermath. “I was a kid. I hardly knew what love was.”

“And yet I didn't let you experience it,” Father says, his mouth thinning. “And I was wrong.”

Arthur's wanted to hear that for years. There was a time when he was scarcely out of his teens when he had been so close to doing something foolish in order to hear those words. Now though that seems not only useless, but morally wrong. “I was young, then. I didn't know what I was doing.” Comparatively, he now knows that to be true. “That wasn’t love.” With Lancelot he'd experienced the first sparks of it, but it had been all potential and no reality. “It's alright.”

“Do you feel the same about this new boy of yours?” Father asks, lifting his head to meet Arthur’s eyes. “Do you feel the same about Merlin?”

Hope shards itself in Arthur's heart. He shouldn't harbour it. He's learnt his lesson well. Each time he hopes, it's doomed. He's either going against ethics or against his duty. “We shouldn't talk about this.” The last time they did Father had collapsed. Arthur's not risking that again. Ever. “I'd better call in the nurse now.”

“No.” Father grimaces as he tries to make a grab for Arthur, stop him from inviting other people into the room. “This has to be said and in private.”

Since resisting is doing Father more harm than good, making him more nervous, Arthur subsides. “Have your say, then,” Arthur says. It's with a heavy heart that he does so. He can give up Merlin, has in fact done so. He's less of a man for that, his heart entirely forfeited, but it can be done. But discussing his loss... He now understands his father's behaviour as to his mother much, much better. “If it's of help.”

“I hope it will be, to you.” Father takes a breath and it's clear talking is draining him. “I know you said you loved him once, but one can never be sure. However, if your feelings for Merlin are indeed true, then I give you my blessing.”

“Father.” Arthur startles, the sudden knot in his throat choking him.

“I mean it,” Father says and his voice softens with that. “I'd rather see you happy than dutiful.”

For a moment all Arthur wants to do is rush out and shout from the roof tops. Elation pumps through his blood and joy dizzies him. But as soon as it floods him, it goes and he's left with the same heaviness of heart he was experiencing before. “Father, I...” It's ironic how, after all, he's the one who's going to be responsible for the failure of his and Merlin's relationship. Not his father, not his ban, not Morgana, not even fate or class divisions. “I'm afraid the way I acted towards him... I'm afraid our parting was final.”

“And are you sure there's no going back?” Father asks. “Are you sure there's no way you can talk yourself out of that strait? Ask for understanding, perhaps, or forgiveness?” Father's eyes soften. “If this had been me and your mother...” Father studies Arthur, searches for something in his gaze. “I would have moved heaven and earth to get a chance to be with her.”

A sob tears out of Arthur. This is the first time in years his father has mentioned his mother. And he's never been so open before. “Father...”

“So I suggest you do try your best to mend things with him.” Father skims his hand across Arthur's shoulder in what would have been a pat had he been stronger.

Arthur wishes he could. But unfortunately wishes don't always come true. “Father, I asked him to marry me and then I took it back, ate my words. I don't think there's any coming back from the pain of that.”

“If he lets his wounded pride stand between you, then he's not worth--”

Arthur cocks an eyebrow. “It's not that, I'm afraid. He'd be a fool to take me back. I broke his trust once...” Wounded him on purpose.

“Well, you should try and--” Father is interrupted by the entrance of a nurse. “Ha,” he says. “Come to check on me... You'll see that I'm fine. I'll be back to my duties before the summer is out.”

“Let me check on your stats first, Your Majesty,” the nurse says, picking up a chart from the end of Father's bed. “Then you can talk to Sir Malcolm about your recovery schedule.”

Arthur stands. “I'll leave you to it then.”

When Arthur's at the door, Father says, “Think about what I said, Arthur.”

 

[ ](http://s845.photobucket.com/user/pouletroti/media/85738b5e-4be5-4801-b0da-a1d00d49e4a5.png.html)

**** 

Father recovers slowly but well. Using a plea for patient confidentiality, Buckingham Palace doesn't release much information on his progress but it's made known that he is recovering. It's also made clear there will be no talk of abdication. Arthur and Morgana take on more of Father's duties and contribute to getting the gears of the royal machine grinding, but they never take on his role. They share their father's tasks among themselves however, beginning with royal trips and speeches and ending with charities.

They're discussing who's taking over the children's trust, Morgana vowing she's not one for under eighteens, when she changes tack and says, “You know, Merlin's graduating next week.”

Merlin's been much discussed in the press. Mostly he's been vilified as the source of the scandal and the man who's contributed the most to the King's illness. Of his graduating there's been no talk. Of course, there hasn't. Journalists haven't been too keen on painting Merlin in a positive light at all. “So he's finished?”

“Duh.” Morgana makes cross eyes at him and sticks her tongue out. “He's been whinging about the edits for the whole month. His professor, of course, says he's brilliant but would Merlin listen?”

“No, of course he wouldn't.” Arthur smiles at the paper work he and Morgana have been handling. “He's very good at pumping other people's self-esteem but not quite so efficient when it comes to his own.”

“That's Merlin,” Morgana says. “A true heart of gold with little self-preservation.”

Arthur signs a document. “Are you--” He presses his lips together, the words sticking in his gullet before he's quite able to spit them out. “You and him. Are you back together?”

Morgana cracks a laugh. “You really think I would do that to you once I knew how desperately in love you are with him?”

Arthur stiffens. He wants Morgana to stop delving into his business. Most of all he wants to object, to defend himself. But to be quite honest Morgana's accusation is spot on. He's so tired of denying it. “Merlin and I can't be together, so if you...” He doesn't want to say it. He really doesn't. He wants to be as selfish as Morgana has been and tell her that Merlin's off limits to her. “Want to get your arrangement back on...”

“You can't be together?” Morgana says accompanying the words with this grating mocking laugh. “Please, I talked to our father. He says he gave you his blessing.” Morgana seeks his gaze out. “He says he's worried about you. He wonders why you're not doing your best to get him back.”

Because I let him down, Arthur wants to say. Because I acted as if I was above doing that and I'm not. “I'm not the person Merlin needs.”

“Have you stopped and actually asked him?” Morgana tips an eyebrow. “Have you actually made the effort or are you just wallowing in your low self-esteem?”

“I'm not--” Arthur splutters, looks down, taps his pen against the first page of the document he was meant to browse and sign. “Look, this is personal.”

Morgana doesn't back off at that. Not that he'd thought she would. “Because if pride is your reason, then you deserve to lose him.”

“It's not pride,” Arthur says with more heat he thought he had in him at this point, after his father, after everything. “It's about breaking trust. Going back on my word. Hurting him.”

“Again.” Morgana lifts her shoulder; it's dismissive, nonchalant. “You should ask him whether that was a deal breaker for him.”

Arthur clicks and unclicks the button of his ballpoint. “I can't do that.” He can't allow himself to. He behaved badly by Merlin and Merlin's better off without him. Not only that, rejection now would tear him apart in ways he doesn't want to contemplate. He has this feeling nowadays that he's an aggregate of parts barely held together. Putting his heart on the line when he knows there's no reason for him to be rewarded is simply not an option.

“Well,” Morgana says, smiling a thin smile. “Then if you no longer have a horse in the race, I suppose I should ring him up and see if he's available for sex.”

Arthur's ears ring. He feels cold and his head takes to spinning. “You said you wouldn't.”

“That was when I thought you were interested in patching things up with Merlin,” Morgana says running the pad of her thumb along the length of a glossy nail. “But you said you've no intention to, so I'd better enjoy myself.” She pauses, pins him with her gaze. “Merlin's so sweet after all.”

Arthur stares ahead. “Please, don't,” he says in a smaller voice, one he's by no means proud of. “Please.”

“Only if you go see him, Arthur,” Morgana tells him. “Only if you go see him.”

 

*****

 

Carved pillars stretch in long succession alongside the nave, forming a seemingly endless arcade that stretches into the depths of the cathedral, a corridor that goes from light into darkness. Ribbed vaults converge up high while at the end of the nave stand the rood screen, choir and chancel. Behind them the rose window filters in multi-coloured light.

The presiding officer is already shaking hands with the graduates, saying a few congratulatory words to each.

Arthur can't spot Merlin among the throng, but then again the students are wearing their robes and hoods and are facing the stage in the direction opposite Arthur's. “Are you sure he's here?” Arthur murmurs to Leon.

“Yes, positive.” Leon cranes his head to try and spy Merlin. “I think I know how to snoop.”

Leon's not wrong for Merlin's the next to step forwards. He has a bright smile and under his robe he's wearing smart clothes, black trousers and a grey shirt. He makes it to the presiding officer, shakes his hand, accepts his parchment, and grins for the photographer. He makes his way back to his seat from the direction opposite the one he came.

When that part of the ritual's over for Merlin, Arthur slips out, Leon in tow.

An hour later the ceremony finishes and the graduates file out. Arthur finds Merlin at the marquee between the palace green and the cathedral. He's standing among clusters of people, friends Arthur gathers, most notably Morgana, Morgause, and an older woman who has the same eyes as Merlin's. His mother perhaps, or an aunt.

Shoulders up, Arthur takes a big breath and marches over to Merlin and his group.

Merlin drops the sandwich he had been eating, crumbs snatched at by strutting pigeons. “Arthur, what are you doing here?”

One of Merlin friends, the Will guy Arthur met at the very beginning of his and Merlin's acquaintance, says, “I was getting used to her--” He indicates Morgana “--but him is a whole other pair of hands.”

Arthur ignores Will and tells Merlin, “I can go if I'm interrupting.”

“No, I--” Merlin's mouth works a few times before he comes up with something to say. “I would have got you a ticket if I'd known you wanted to come.”

Arthur breathes out with relief. Merlin doesn't hate him or he'd have told him to go away. “If I'm not ruining your day--” Out of the corner of his eyes, Arthur sees Morgana roll her eyes at him. “I'd love to talk to you. I came to do that.” Maybe that sounds selfish. Arthur rephrases. “Naturally, I also wanted to congratulate you, but I--”

“We can talk,” Merlin says, with a tentative smile and eyes rounded by surprise and something else, a soft look.

Arthur eyes the group Merlin is with. Of course he can't ask Merlin to ditch them. But he isn't sure he can say what he's come here to say in their presence. This requires levels of unburdening he's not comfortable doing before a crowd. “I can come back another time if you'd rather...”

“No.” Merlin turns to the woman he resembles, tells her something in whispered tones, then kisses her on the cheek. To the others, he says, “Um, would you mind if Arthur and I took a stroll and--”

“Actually I do mind,” Will says. “You said there'd be alcohol, not faithless poncey princes snatching you away.”

Morgana says, “Do shut up, Will.”

“I, um--” Merlin scratches at his scalp from under his ceremonial hood. “I suppose, I could...”

“Just go talk to my idiot elder brother, Merlin,” Morgana says. “We'll find something to do.”

Arthur and Merlin take a stroll around the green. It's crowded with fresh graduates as well as friends and family members thereof. Heads down, Arthur and Merlin walk side by side but say nothing. There's too many curious stares aimed their way for Arthur to be able to talk. So he doesn't. When they get past the Great Hall, it gets easier. Most of the throng is by the Marquee, where refreshments are on offer and there's overall more to do.

Arthur says, “I'm sorry I haven't been there for you. I mean you've been working towards graduating, have been dealing with the fall-out of my actions...”

“Arthur, really,” Merlin says, kicking at a stone on the path. “You needn't have come here to apologise about that. I'm touched by the gesture but I'm enough of an adult to know that you've had a lot on your plate.”

“I wanted to apologise, true, because it's necessary,” Arthur says and ploughs on before Merlin can interrupt again. “But that's not the reason I came.”

Merlin fetches up short. “Then why did you come?”

“Because as self-centred as it may sound,” Arthur says, and he's not sure his voice is not cracking or that he's too steady on his feet. He's feeling, after all, quite dizzy with the rush that comes with revealing himself to Merlin, the one that is concomitant with showing him how much Arthur's missed him, how much he feels for him. “I want another chance with you. And I know that I've done nothing to deserve it and I understand that it's quite crass of me to come and ask when I treated you so badly...”

“No.” Merlin whirls round so he's no longer by Arthur's side but facing him. “No.”

“Of course.” Arthur's heart does crack. He'd had little hope, but he'd thought maybe if he forgot pride and was humble... “It was too much to ask. I should have known.”

Merlin jerks his head from side to side. “No, you don't get it. You don't have to apologise about what you did.”

“Merlin, I promised I'd marry you and took it back. I was cutting and cold and quite cruel--”

Merlin raises a palm. “No let me, let me.”

Arthur nods.

“It did hurt,” Merlin says, looking down. He pulls his robes tight around him. “It hurt more than a little. Not the marrying thing, obviously, but the not being with you, the watching you suffer from a distance.” His nostrils quiver. “I wanted to help and I was the last one who could, and I just simply wished I could have had you back, even as a friend. But I knew how impossible that was, so I was... quite low for a while... and that's an understatement.”

The idea that Merlin suffered because of something Arthur did brings the anger Arthur had been aiming at himself to a boil. “Merlin, I--” It comes out as a near sob.

“But I don't hold it against you,” Merlin says, “not at all. I understand what you must have been going through and how peculiar your situation must be. I mean...” He makes a swiping hand gesture. “You're not like anybody else. You're a real life prince. Your feelings can't be your own.”

“But they can,” Arthur says, cocking his head up with the thrill which hope lends his body. “And I'm not just saying this because I have my father's blessing, though I have.” He takes a breath, not so much because he's run out of air with all the words he's said, but rather because the soft look in Merlin's eyes, the smile that starts poking at his lips, takes it from him. “After a lot of soul searching I've come to see that my feelings can be my own.” He sticks his chest out. “I can lay claim to them like any other man and doing so is the only honourable thing to do.”

Merlin flashes him a wide smile that is only a little bit veiled by tears. “So what does that mean... for us?”

“It means, Merlin--” And now Arthur's smiling too, smiling so much it nearly hurts. “That I've come to ask you if you want to be with me.” Now that the hard part is done, that he's had his say, Arthur lets himself be quite foolhardy. “Because I feel for you very deeply. In fact...” He balls up his fists and digs them into his palm. “In fact, I love you.”

Merlin takes a step forwards, tilts his head. “Do you?”

If Merlin wants him to, Arthur will go on his knees. With his heart hammering in his throat, Arthur licks his lips and prepares to explain, go the whole length. “Yes, I--”

Merlin takes his hand, takes a step forward and another.

The warmth of his palm seeps into Arthur. It kick-starts some heat of his own, which pools thick in his belly and flutters along his veins. Merlin presses his lips to Arthur's, soft and undemanding, a tentative gesture of re-acquaintance that solidifies when Arthur returns the pressure, again and again in a fever of intent.

Merlin's tongue strokes over the crease of Arthur's mouth in a soft back and forth. It's instinct for Arthur. He parts his lips, allows contact, and Merlin's tongue dips inside to skim his. Just before Arthur can deepen the contact, Merlin pulls back. When Merlin lifts his mouth from Arthur's, his breath streams against Arthur's collar.

“Are we all right?” Arthur asks. He doesn't mean to define it. And he doesn't want to put names to it anymore, but he needs to know.

“Yes,” Merlin says, placing Arthur's hands on his hips, meeting his eyes with a blinding smile “yes, we are.”

 

**** 

**Epilogue**

Sandringham, Christmas 2015

 

Morgana watches them. She doesn't do it out of the corner of her eye but rather overtly. They're not noticing, too busy with their bout of horseplay, Merlin chasing Arthur, who's running in the slush, cheeks red and hands more so, Merlin smiling giddily with the joy of motion. They're leaving imprints in the snow, filling the air with their taunts and laughter.

Merlin catches Arthur by the coat. Arthur spins round, puts his arms around Merlin. There's some sort of tug of war between them, a push and pull, and then Arthur ends up on his back with Merlin on top of him, crowing, shaking his head, a smile firm on his lips, huffing loudly.

Morgana knows they're not kissing because they're in public, with staff loitering about, Uther ensconced in his rooms which have a view of the park. They're still tentative around him, still careful not to ruffle his feathers, dancing around him as though too blatant a display of affection will send him hurtling into another heart attack.

What they don't seem to see is that Uther has softened towards them, that he's no longer the man he used to be. Even though sometimes he's distant towards Merlin, unable to find common ground with him, he still makes an effort to accept him as a matter of good will. And that, Morgana wagers, is more than any of them would have expected of Uther Pendragon.

“Do you ever wish it had gone differently?” Morgause asks her, wrapping her arms around herself to stave off the cold.

Morgana hooks her arm around Morgause's so she can lend her some body warmth, walks together with her. “What?”

“Merlin.” Morgause says, watching Morgana study Merlin and Arthur. “Do you ever find yourself wishing he didn't end up with Arthur? That he was still with...”

“Me? You mean?” Morgana leans her head on Morgause's shoulder as they promenade themselves around the park. “I've asked myself that question before, you know.”

“And?” Morgause squeezes her arm.

Morgana tilts her head back, sighs, looks at the cover of clouds scuttling in the charcoal sky. “Merlin is quite lovely and loving. I do sometimes find myself...” She hesitates saying this. She wants to dissemble, lie, pull up her defences so she can be the same as always, daring, strong, unflappable. But she can't do that. “Sometimes I do find myself wishing all of that was directed towards me.”

A peal of laughter bursts from Merlin. “That was underhanded and mean,” they hear him shout. “But see if I won't shovel snow in your underwear.”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “That I had him to call mine.” She sighs and feels the tightening pressure of Morgause's fingers digging into her skin. “Who doesn't want something like that?” she adds.

“I thought you didn't,” Morgause says, slowing down.

“Oh I do want it.” Morgana's day dreamed about it quite often, both when she was seeing Merlin for sex and he was being particularly nice or attentive, surprising her out of thinking him a fad she'd outgrow the wanting of once Uther was outraged enough. When she'd got with Morgause things had become more complicated, especially since she could see Merlin wasn't that cut out to be only a piece of her puzzle. She'd made sure he had Arthur so she wouldn't feel the burden. Later, when Merlin had got together with her brother she'd seen what they had, how Merlin was with Arthur, and wanted that for herself. “But I'd be selfish if I went after him.”

“No more than your brother is.” Morgause glares at poor Arthur. Not that Arthur is aware. He's just now catching Merlin's hand, wanting to be pulled up, or perhaps to engage in another bout of horseplay. “You wouldn't be more selfish than him.”

“But I would.” Morgana thought that perhaps Morgause would have understood it. She's more like Morgana herself than either Arthur or Merlin. But apparently not. “I still want to be free. I still don't want a--” She makes air quotes. “‘--traditional relationship’. I don't want to see only one person and one person alone.”

“While I obviously approve of that,” Morgause says, “I don't think that explains why you didn’t gun for him. He could have been one of the many.”

“Why are you pushing me at Merlin?” Morgana asks, wanting to plumb Morgause's depths. She's fascinating with all that Morgana still doesn't understand about her.

“Because I want to know that you're fighting for the things you want.” Morgause voice is brisk and matter of fact but Morgana knows there's a staunch affection “That you're not throwing in the towel out of self-sacrifice. You deserve the best.”

“I'm not doing any of these things. Merlin and I didn’t work.” Morgana looks at Merlin and Arthur. They're brushing snow off each other, each touch getting closer and closer to becoming a caress. “It wasn't where Merlin's heart was. Or what he truly wanted.” Merlin was game to do the casual thing for a while, but in the long run, she doesn't think he'd have stayed that way. “I couldn't change for him so...” As much as he doesn't understand her completely, Arthur would probably get it. “It wouldn't have been fair.”

Morgause gives her a once over. “I think,” she says stepping back, “that maybe you just love your brother.”

Morgana's about to answer, when Arthur calls out to her. “Come on, Morgana, time for dinner.”

“Oh yes,” she says, stuffing her hands in her pockets and stomping over to him. “And we all know how eager you are for it.”

“I don't know what you mean.” Arthur herds her forward.

“No?” She smacks her lips together. “First official dinner with Merlin and Uther present? That's got nothing to do with it?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Arthur, the bastard, looks down and avoids her gaze. “I'm simply hungry and looking forward to Christmas dinner.”

“You looking forward to all the fuss and formality of it, please, pull the other one.”

“I just want the turkey, Morgana, just the turkey.”

Morgana doesn't reply. They both know the truth and she can tease her brother later, when Merlin's not so awkward about the upcoming ordeal, when Arthur gets his defences down, once everything's gone smoothly. For now she watches Merlin and Arthur get inside, then, with Morgause's hand in hers, she walks in too.

 

The End.


End file.
